


A Mystrade Summer Night's Dream

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1980s AU, AU, First Meeting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of AIDS scare, Mentions of childhood trauma and bullying, Police Constable Lestrade, Yes Minister x-over in last chapter, Young Mycroft Holmes/Young Greg Lestrade, Young Mystrade, but not too much Angst, mystrade, well younger but not kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-15 09:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17526074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: The year is 1984, Thatcherite Britain, the era of the Miners’ strike and the Falklands War. The Miners’ Strike has taken its toll, leaving bitterness in its wake. PC Greg Lestrade is on the verge of moving up to Sergeant. Mycroft Holmes is despairing of his civil service role, trying to climb the ladder while seemingly batting against the brick wall that is the Iron Lady’s government.





	1. Troubled Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eliza_doolittlethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliza_doolittlethings/gifts).



> So, Girls and Boys, to orientate you in history, this decade saw the Rubic’s Cube arrive in 1980, Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer were married the following year. The decade is marked by a period of economic recession and high unemployment in the UK, and in 1984 the Miners voted to strike over threatened pit closures, which lead to violent clashes between striking miners and policemen. The strike failed and was called off after a year, allowing the pit closures to go ahead. In October of the same year, IRA bombers hit the Conservative Party Conference at their hotel in Brighton, narrowly missing Margaret Thatcher, the closest they came to killing a British Prime Minister. In 1986, major National industries (gas, bus, train, water, steel, and telecom, among others) were privatized. The following year, Thatcher was again voted in for a third term. In 1989, Tim Berners-Lee was credited with the invention of the World Wide Web while working at CERN. The first email is sent and thus was the birth of everything we are now using to share on AO3. There are no mobile/cell phones in 1984, apart from an early version of the ‘brick’, and that didn’t really take off until a few years later.

Lady Hillary Strickland's 18th birthday bash was undertaken in the very beautiful environment of the vast parkland of her father’s estate in Oxfordshire on the 14th July 1984. She dutifully attended the family garden party that saturday afternoon, demurely dressed in floral cotton lawn, drinking pink lemonade (with the sneaky addition of gin that nobody noticed) and making small talk with her aunts and uncles and family friends. Anyone watching would think she was the golden girl, a model A-level student and shoo-in for Oxbridge. However, when the evening came along, the model student disappeared. Not literally, of course. If you were expecting a missing persons case or a murder mystery, then you’ll be disappointed. 

‘Hills’ was nothing if not a party girl, and once the maiden aunts and the doting grandparents had left, the real party (in Hillary’s opinion) got started. Gone was the demure dress and out came the skinny jeans and crop top, furtive cigarettes and— even more furtive—vodka shots. Hillary had asked her father to be allowed to host a concert after the family party. She had so many friends from school and so many cousins she had begged for something for the younger generation, so her doting father had agreed. There had been a few conditions, such as a severe injunction that nobody be allowed to disturb the peace of the main house and gardens, and under absolutely no circumstance would drugs be tolerated. Hillary was given to understand that should the aforementioned rules be flouted, then she would be packing her bags on the morrow. The senior Strickland had pulled a few strings, courtesy of his entertainment industry connections, to get a few headlining bands to do a set or two, and had allowed a marquee for catering. There was a free bar and a buffet supper. Hillary was allowed sixty guests and their plus-ones, and probably a few plus-twos as well, and they had been given the field beyond the kitchen garden to let loose in, a meadow beside the river that bordered the estate. 

Greg Lestrade, entering his fourth year as a police constable, was somewhat surprised to find himself ‘invited’ to the party by Sergeant Bob Bracewell. He frowned at his sergeant. “Why me, Sarg?”

“No idea, Lestrade. Not my idea. Somebody upstairs thinks you qualify as ‘reliable’...” 

Greg had found that eighteen of them had been ‘invited’ to the event. They were summoned after work one evening the week prior to the event, and Bracewell addressed them all. 

“Now then, ladies and gentlemen. No doubt you’re all wondering why I’ve asked you here tonight.” Somebody sniggered. “Fact is, there is an 18th Birthday bash happening at the weekend, MPs daughter. The man in question has a bit of pull and has called in a few favours. Upstairs has asked me to pull a few people together to go keep an eye on things. They want reliable younger officers to blend in with the party-goers to keep the peace, as it were. No arrests. We’re there to blend in, observe, break up any fights, keep things safe and make sure the young uns are not taking any recreational substances that might contravene the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. This is, however, a strictly off-the-record informal happening. This is not a police operation. Are we clear on that? This is voluntary, so nobody gets paid, and you can opt out if you so choose. However, there will be free food, free drink, and there is a concert with some bands even I recognise. You’d be expected to stay sober, but primarily you’re there to enjoy yourselves and to make sure the other young folks do as well. So, any questions?”

“Sir, exactly who’s party is this?” 

Gordon Strickland himself was a Tory MP with a reputation to uphold. As such, he had enough pull to request additional help to maintain the peace from his friend, the police commissioner, and enough money to make a hefty donation to the widows and orphans to smooth the way. So, together with fourteen of his peers—four had cited other draws on their time and backed out—Greg dutifully turned up at the palatial country house at the appointed time. He arrived on his motorbike, dusty and in dire need of a drink. It was summer, and an hour’s drive out of London. Beneath his leathers he was suitably clad in jeans and a Clash t-shirt for the express purpose of blending in with the crowd. Seven of their number plus their sergeant arrived in an unmarked minibus, Gregson and Brown turned up on Gregson’s Honda, and three others arrived in a beaten up Audi Quattro. _At least,_ Greg thought, _nobody will question our choice of vehicles, even if we look like the poor relations._

Greg locked his leathers and helmet in the minibus, and was now somewhat cooler. The summer heat made riding his bike uncomfortable but he was too safety conscious not to wear his protective gear. He had taken his denim jacket out of the pannier of his bike and was now ambling along beside Sergeant Bracewell, and one of the female PCs, Penny Godwin, as they strolled through the knee high grass of the summer meadow, beers in hand. The others had dispersed across the site, some heading for the catering tent and others to listen to the band on stage. It would have looked odd not to be drinking, but Bracewell had insisted he drink shandy for the night. Penny was drinking a coke and smoking a Silk Cut and scanning the crowd, Bracewell was nursing a pint in a plastic glass. Greg was watching the main stage with interest. Marillion were belting out Garden Party. Greg wondered if any of those below the stage in the grass actually registered the meaning behind the satirical words… 

“Sorry, Guv, what?” Greg dimly registered Bracewell had said something. 

“Pin your ears back, Lestrade, this isn’t a night off. I’m going to check in with Brown and Gregson behind the beer tent, so please try to stay out of trouble, the both of you.” He checked his watch. “I make it ten to eight and we still have a long night ahead of us. Split up, mingle, keep your eyes open. Give it an hour and then meet up in the car park for a brief catch up before we continue. Don’t be late. You’ve got your radios, but maintain silence unless abso-fucking-lutely necessary, got that?” 

“Sure, Sarg. We’ll stay alert.”

“See you do, and no substituting the strong stuff for shandy, got that? I need everybody sharp tonight.” He nodded once and marched off. 

“Bloody Hell, he’s an old woman sometimes,” Penny complained, flicking the stub of her cigarette into the river. “You’d think this was the first time we’d done anything covert.”

“Well, not like we’re expert,” Greg reminded her. “Last time went tits up and we never heard the end of it. This time it’s a bit more...informal, but it’s still got a lot riding on it.”

“Fucking Strickland’s rep, that’s what,” she said, scornfully. Behind them, Marillion struck up with Jigsaw and Greg watched several of the ‘beautiful people’ (who seemed to make up the majority of Hillary’s friends) wander through the trees toward the river.

“I’m going to follow that lot, see if they’re up to something. You head back to the stage…”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Greg. I can decide for myself. See you at the rendezvous and don’t fuck it up by being late.”

He watched her go. “I’ll be seeing you...again...on the ricochet…” he sang, along with the words. Honestly, he was glad to see the back of her sometimes. 

The river was wide but shallow at the point where Greg was standing. It intersected Strickland’s property on two sides, running down the side of the eastern meadow where the party was situated, emerging from dense woodland to the north. Beyond the meadow lay the high walls of the kitchen garden conveniently separating the party from the main estate. Scattered trees clad the banks of the river all along the meadow’s edge, among them concealing willows and graceful silver birch, as well as a few beeches and the occasional oak, thinning out where it turned west to run along the southern border. At this point the river grew wider and deeper beyond the garden’s ha-ha border. Several punts were tied up at a small jetty and several party-goers were attempting to give it a go, hopelessly knocking into each other and tipping the punts over. Splashes and laughter reached his ears.

The house, a large Gothic Revival structure overlooking formal gardens, was a house with a long history. Strickland’s great grandfather had bought it with his industrialist fortune and it had remained in the family ever since. While Greg usually appreciated country houses of this kind, he couldn’t help being awed by the amount of money tied up in the place. It was huge, golden stone mellow in the summer evening, bespeaking old money and titles dating back centuries. Strickland himself was an entrepreneur with interests in newspapers and banking and investments, a lawyer with a long history of political interests. His political career had been dogged with rumour of backhanders and non-disclosure of donations, not to mention his excessive expenses claims concerning his London property. Strickland had contested the challenges and nothing seemed to stick to him. Slippery, his enemies called him. Greg reserved judgement. He wasn’t in a position to comment.

Slipping beneath the overhanging fronds of a large willow, Greg found that its shade offered sudden and welcome relief from the heat. He was in a prime position to observe the goings on, half hidden as he was behind the leaves. He watched the group as they stumbled through the water, giggling and splashing. The young women carried their sandals and held their skirts up as best they could but did not seem to really care about getting soaked. It was the end of a hot summer day, and the evening wasn’t much cooler. The men with them were not wearing much more than designer jeans and t-shirts, not caring if their trainers or deck shoes got soaked. They pushed and shoved each other, laughing and cursing, trying not to spill their lager and land on their arse in the water. One of them was unlucky, cursing as his beer cascaded into the waves, and ending up on his backside in the deeper part of the river. His mates hauled him out and someone pressed another can of lager into his hands. Despite a few of the girls necking with some of the lads, nobody seemed to be up to anything more nefarious. Greg shrugged and left his hiding spot, ambling back along the riverbank, trying to avoid running into Penny again. She irritated him with her attitude sometimes.

Mycroft moved between the groups of laughing singing relevers with care. He had no desire to be inveigled into joining any of them, despite his desire to fit in. He had been invited by a university friend, someone he had not seen in years but had run across in the city only a week before. He was supposed to be catching up with Steven, considering that was the reason the man had given for inviting him, but not long after they had arrived in Steven’s Porsche, the man had disappeared with a gang of his friends and abandoned Mycroft to his fate. Left among people he didn’t know and frankly had no interest in chatting to, Mycroft drifted, aimless. Of course he knew Strickland, but not on first name terms, and was too old to have been at school with the majority of the attendees. He thought about calling a taxi and leaving, but the weather was glorious, the setting beautiful and providing this did not get out of hand, the event promised to be bearable at least. He could perhaps afford to linger a while. There was free food and drink and he could escape the noise and the heat somewhat in the surrounding woodland.

He allowed himself to wander away from the party area and the stage where a frankly awful group was banging out some satirical rock that he was sure was going over the heads of most of the people listening. Their place was eventually taken by another group, banging out equally terrible sounds. He really rather hesitated to call it music. It was giving him a throbbing headache. He drifted to the river, it’s calm flow soothing him. 

Greg strolled back along the river bank, bypassing the stage area and keeping his eye on those nearest the water. He tried to drink the shandy but it’s insipid flavour annoyed him and he ended up tipping the dregs into the river. One beer shouldn’t impair his abilities. If he wasn’t over the legal limit to drive he should be fine. The event wasn’t even a kosher police operation, it was a favour to a public figure and they wouldn’t be nicking anybody tonight. Orders were to apprehend, confiscate anything illegal and eject from the party. Sod Bracewell, if he could sneak a proper beer, Greg was going to, first opportunity he got. He was driving, and wouldn’t go over the limit, he was too sensible for that, but he needed at least one decent drink. 

Picnic blankets were out, small groups lounging on them, talking and catching the last rays of the sun as the shadows started to lengthen. The music changed as Ian Drury and the Music Students took the stage. Greg wondered what this event was costing Strickland. Some of the bands were already headline stuff, and some had already been on Top of the Pops. UB40 had already put in an appearance and apparently, The Clash were due to play at some point. A dedicated bunch of dancers were close to the stage, although their girations were almost an imitation of a mosh pit, rather than the real thing. _Like they’re pretending to be down here with the peasants,_ Greg thought, _down here with the common people, doing what common people do._ He grinned. _Not bad words for a song,_ he thought*. There was one guy on his own down by the water, obviously moved away from the action for some alone time, thousand yard stare aimed down the river but not seeing anything. Greg registered short red hair, sunlight turning it copper, one wayward curl across his brow above a hawk nose ( _bet that’s caused him to be the butt of some jokes through school_ ), a lean frame, and obviously designer casuals. Worth a few bob then. _He looks...troubled, somehow. Worried. Stressed._ Curious, Greg drifted closer. The man was...attractive, in a posh kind of way. There was something different about him, as though he didn’t quite fit in with this bunch of Hooray Henrys. 

_Damn it all, someone’s coming_. Mycroft had hoped to stay alone for a while longer. He was tired, he knew he shouldn’t have come, that Steven was as shallow and vacuous as most of his other acquaintances, but something had called to his lonely soul, called to his need to be included, to be part of something... Mycroft focused on the person approaching and... _Oh._ The man was slightly older than himself, if he was any judge, but not by much. He was...there was something not quite... _ah, of course_. Most likely this one was one of the police that Hillary’s father was rumoured to have drafted in. Unofficially, of course, but the man was a Tory MP and rather fond of both his daughter and his image, and while he wished to be considered a cool, progressive father, he had no wish to incur the wrath of the drugs squad. 

This man was _very_ easy on the eyes, that was sure. Dark hair with grey flashes. _Prematurely grey then_. Very dark brown eyes, and a rugged face...a little scruffy, but not too much. _He blends in, youthful but not too young, one of the lads, probably plays football_...Mycroft catalogued all the details, filing them away. The man ran a hand through his short hair, mussing the strands and leaving it spiky. _Definitely plays football, or rugby, but the probability of football is higher. Likes a drink, smoker too, tries to give up but not very disciplined_ … 

“Hi there.” _God, that voice._ Mycroft turned, plastering a pleasant smile on his face.

“Hello. Have we met?” _Opening gambit, unlikely to be affirmative but it opens the conversation._

“Dunno, don’t think so.” _That smile...Showing white teeth, slightly uneven, not able to afford the best dentistry then…_

“I’m afraid I hardly know anybody here. My...date went off with friends and I haven’t seen them since.” 

“Common occurrence, although if you were my date, I’d be unlikely to leave you for my mates.” Mycroft registered that with interest. “Not keen on the line up then?”

“Line up?” Mycroft wasn’t sure what he meant for a moment. 

“Music?”

“Oh, yes...um…”

“Not to your taste, I’m guessing?”

“Correct.”

“I’d put you as more of a classical man, hm? Chopin? Mozart?” 

Mycroft smiled. “You would be correct on that assumption too.”

“Well, have to admit I’m looking forward to hearing the Clash though. Sorry about that.” The man grinned again, a cheeky look in those chocolate-coloured eyes of his. _Bedroom eyes_ , Mycroft’s brain supplied. The man’s frame was sturdy, solid, strong-limbed and limber. He wore a sleeveless white t-shirt, of the kind colloquially known as a ‘wife beater’, decorated with a faded Clash logo. _Worn it a lot then, obviously a favourite band, considering his aforementioned anticipation of seeing them perform._ The faded Wrangler jeans hugged muscled thighs and a rather nice arse, and he wore a faded denim jacket, similar to Mycroft’s own. 

Mycroft had deliberately ‘dressed down’ as far as his limited experience had allowed him to. Gucci jeans and a loose untucked white shirt, no tie and absolutely no Oxfords. His own denim jacket was by Jordache, a brand to be seen in, and he had no doubt most of the people here would be sporting Klein and Gucci over Levi and Wrangler. He was wearing espadrilles, absolutely no socks, and he knew from the bottom of his heart that his family would be utterly shocked at his appearance if they could see him. Some part of him had wanted to break out of the rigid Saville Row armour he wore for his day job; climbing the ladder in the Civil Service, proving himself in his omnipotence to the people who mattered, juggling work and family, trying to keep his baby brother out of harm’s way. It just got so _much_ sometimes...

“Hey,” said a soft voice beside him. “Got lost for a moment there? You okay?”

“I’m...no, not really,” Mycroft confessed. “Look, I shouldn’t take up any more of your time, Officer. You are working this evening, are you not?”

There was a moment of silence as the man tried to work it out. “How did you know?” 

Mycroft sighed. “I observe. Nothing occult about my abilities, I do assure you. I am...I have contacts in government. I hold a minor position only but I heard the rumour that Sir Gordon was bringing in extra troops to make sure his little darling did not suffer the wrath of the local constabulary.” To Mycroft’s surprise, the man chuckled. 

“Well, we’re not being paid. This is voluntary, although we’re given to understand it will be looked on favourably.” He held up his glass. “Short rations though.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t quite…”

“Shandy, not beer. Sarg wants us to keep a clear head.”

“A practical suggestion.” 

“Yeah, well, nobody will be arresting anyone tonight anyway…”

“Appearances then,” Mycroft suggested. “Appearances are everything to people like Sir Gordon.”

Greg made a dismissive noise that sounded very much like a raspberry. “Bollocks,” he said indelicately. “If I nick anyone for possession, then I nick ‘em. No matter if it’s at some posh party or on the streets in Peckham, I am still going to do my job, no exceptions because little Johnny’s dad happens to be Minister for Foreign Affairs or whatever.”

“The present Minister for Foreign And Commonwealth Affairs is Geoffrey Howe and I know for a fact that he does not have a son called Johnny.” 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just made a joke there.”

“I try.” Mycroft had to admit to a certain enjoyment in their exchange. The man’s mind was far from dull, and he was challenging in ways Mycroft had never encountered before. However, the fact remained that he was on duty, albeit in an informal setting. 

“Dammit, sorry,” Greg said suddenly, sticking a hand out to shake. “Greg Lestrade, and you were right, I’m a detective constable with the London Met, only please keep it under your hat, I am trying to keep a low profile tonight.”

“Mycroft Holmes, Minor Government Official with the Foreign Office.” They shook hands. “You can rely on me, I am not about to initiate a hue and cry because we have members of Her Majesty’s Constabulary watching over us. However, you and your colleagues are a long way from home.”

“Well, it was deemed best to leave the local lads out of it. Just in case. We’re apparently more used to policing hooray Henrys than they are. Dunno where their reasoning comes from, just seems that people think if you’re from the London Met you’re more capable of dealing with people’s drug habits.”

“Doubtless you deal with all sorts?”

“Too right. Well, Mycroft Holmes, forgive me for intruding, but you look...a bit...well, stressed, if I’m honest. You said you weren’t okay when I asked before. Anything I can do?” 

The honest concern in the man’s eyes was...gratifying, not to mention a little surprising. “Mycroft, please, and no, there is nothing whatever you can do to alleviate my stress levels. Comes with the job, I’m afraid. I have a younger brother who causes me a great deal of worry, elderly parents who suffer the infirmities of old age, not to mention a hefty workload...”

“Oh, stop right there, I am with you on all counts. Bratty, is he, your brother? Demanding? Doesn’t understand that the world doesn’t revolve around him?”

“Sherlock to a tee, I am afraid. You are in a similar situation then?”

“Paid up member of the Bratty Annoying and Demanding Younger Sibling Club here.”

“I believe the acronym for that spells BADYS.” 

“It is?” Greg laughed. “So we’re both BADYS then. Most likely our respective brothers would agree with that summation. I also have parents who are quite old, although they’re not really that infirm. Mum would swat me around the head if I as much as whispered such a suggestion. Work load, well, it’s rising, definitely. Passed my sergeant’s exams recently. Just waiting for an opening. Hoping I don’t stuff this particular operation up because if I do, I guess his nibs indoors over there will make sure none of us work again.”

“I severely doubt that, after all this is an informal arrangement. Unless it is an official police operation, I doubt any transgressions would hold up in a disciplinary hearing.” 

“Comforting words, thanks. However, Sir Gordon won’t be very forgiving if things get out of hand here.”

“True enough, but I dare say the most problematic will be Steven and his cronies. I don’t doubt there will be cocaine sampling somewhere tonight. I knew him at University, and I doubt very much he has changed.”

“Well, dunno where they’ll go, because they’re banned from the house…”

“This is a river, so my guess there is bound to be a boat house somewhere.”

“Bugger, never considered that.” 

“The river deepens around the bend that takes it along the southern face of the house. If there is a boat house, I should bet that is where you will find it, probably hidden in trees.”

Greg checked his watch. “I’ll pass the idea on when I meet up with my sergeant in twenty minutes. Let him decide. Thanks, though.” Greg glanced at the water. “You know what? I’ve got time…” he kicked off his trainers, rolled his trousers to the knee. “Come on, let’s cool down.”

“Pardon?”

“Tonight I gotta cut loose, Footloose, kick off your Sunday shoes,” Greg sang. “Please, Louise, pull me off of my knees…”

“What on earth…?”

“Come on, Myc. Join me. Kick off your shoes, let’s get a bit wet…” Greg stepped into the water and gasped. It was a lot colder than he’d expected. Mycroft watched him and laughed. 

“Was that a shock?”

“Just a bit, but it’s good. Come on, Myc. Live a little.” On impulse, and Mycroft would catch himself later, because he never did anything on impulse, he kicked his own shoes off and rolled his jeans up above his ankles. He stepped in and nearly stumbled, but a strong hand caught him under his elbow and held him up effortlessly. He glanced up and found himself staring into Greg’s dark eyes again. They were close enough to… Mycroft pulled away a little, removing himself from the equation. Greg smiled, regretfully, but squeezed his arm and smiled. “Okay?”

“Ye.yes...f.f.fine, but you are correct, it is a bit...c.c.cold.” 

“Nice after the sun though." Greg walked a little way over the shallow sand, letting the cold water ripple around his feet. Mycroft kept pace, wondering at his own boldness. Eventually though, Greg checked his watch. “Damn it, I really should make a move.” 

“A pity you have to go.” They clambered out and tugged on their shoes again, which was more difficult than it looked with wet feet. Somehow Mycroft didn’t mind.

“Is it? I mean...yes, it is, but...”

“I’ve enjoyed your company, Greg. In half an hour you have achieved more for me than anyone has in my entire lifetime.”

“I have? Wow, you’ve been missing out.” Greg chuckled. “Will I see you later?”

“I…” Mycroft was caught in that gaze again and found himself agreeing. “I will endeavour to be somewhere around the main stage. Will that suit?”

“Okay then,” Greg said and grinned widely again. “Was good talking to you, Mycroft Holmes. Hope you feel a bit better soon. You should take a holiday, you know. Can’t survive on all work and no play.” The last word was delivered with a very flirty waggle of the eyebrows. Mycroft sighed, exasperated.

“Off with you, Constable Lestrade. I would not want to be the cause of you being late.” 

**0000000000**

“Boat house, sir. Is there one and have we checked it?”

“I have no idea, Lestrade. What makes you think the boat house would be relevant?” They had gathered by the minibus that they had driven up from London in, sharing their uneventful evening so far. Nobody had stepped out of line, and nothing untoward had gone on. 

“I was chatting to one of the guests, sir,” Greg said. “He considered his date might be the type to take cocaine, and may possibly use somewhere remote and out of the way, like a boat house, somewhere not frequented by others, sir.”

“Who was this man?”

“No idea, sir. A guest. I didn’t want to compromise the operation by revealing who I was, or asking for his name, sir. We were just...well, discussing dates, and he was lamenting he’d been abandoned by his, and suggested they might be the kind to partake of cocaine, sir.”

“Little oiks, the lot of them. Alright, Lestrade, you and Gregson and Davies stay up here and make sure you keep your eye on the dance crowd. The rest of you, with me. We’re going to locate any boat house if there is one, and check it out. Keep your heads down and keep your noses clean.” 

Greg returned to the stage area, but there was no sign of Mycroft. He walked up and down for a while but the man wasn’t there. Returning to the river, he wandered up and down for a while, even checking beneath the fronds of the willows in case he had gone to ground there, but there was no sign of him. Greg watched as The Clash were setting up. He kept scanning the area but no ginger heads were in evidence except a couple of female ones. The first notes of London Calling reached his ears, and he stood there watching one of his favourite bands for a few indulgent minutes before resigning himself to having to find Mycroft Holmes and tell him to make himself scarce. He lingered, telling himself he was just making sure, but eventually he made himself move to the beer tent and then to the buffet marquee to check. Nothing. _Maybe he’s decided to leave,_ Greg thought. _Knows he’s better off away from this place with us watching._

As he searched, the music ringing in his ears, he saw a flash of red hair disappearing behind the portaloos. Knowing it couldn’t hurt to check, he jogged across to where he had seen the flash of red disappear. Voices could be heard, raised and angry. 

“It must have been you.” A light voice, a shaky tenor, angry.

“I assure you, Steven, it was not I. I have no idea what you get up to. I have barely spoken two words to you since you saw fit to abandon me once we got here. How would I know?”

“You knew me at Uni, Myc. You knew I had a habit…”

“You’re still alive, so I assumed you must have kicked it. If you fell foul of the extra security Gordon hired, that is certainly not my fault.” 

“Damn you, you bastard! Nobody else knew we were down there…”

“Where, Steven? I have no idea where you went so how on earth could I have blabbed it to anyone.”

“You know this place…”

“I do not know this place, Steven. I have never been before. I do not know Hillary Strickland personally and I have never been invited to a party before…”

“I don’ believe you!”

“Then you are a fool. You are high, Steven, you are not even thinking straight.” 

“Fuck you!” There was a scuffle of feet, and a grunt, and Greg dived around the corner to see a blond man lunging at Mycroft with his hands outstretched. Despite the fact that Mycroft danced out of the way, Greg did the only thing he could think of. He tackled the man to the ground. Steven struggled, trying to kick him off. Greg wrapped himself around Steven’s legs. The man bucked, but couldn’t move well. He heaved Greg up, and over, and they both rolled. Landing with a huff as he hit the ground, Greg suddenly felt the man go limp under him.

“What the fuck..?” Greg let him go and rolled away. Mycroft helped him to his feet, Steven lay there, limp as a rag doll. Greg reached down and felt for the man’s pulse. It was there, steady. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God, he’s not dead. What happened?”

“I think he struck his head as you rolled. There is a stone under the grass. He was moving rather violently. His head hit the ground rather hard.”

“Well, I think this counts as a code red…” Reluctantly, he reached for his radio. “Better make yourself scarce for a while.” 

**000000000**

“So, Lestrade, the man twisted to try to get out of your grasp and struck his head on the stone under the grass?”

“Yes, sir.” They were standing in the car park watching the tail lights of an ambulance bounce off down the back road out of the estate. 

“You say he threatened a guest.”

“That’s why I intervened, sir.”

“And there is no sign of that guest now, or of the one who told you about the possibility of them meeting in the boathouse.”

“No, sir. I have been through every face I could see, but there’s nobody.”

“Convenient. It’s lucky this is an informal event, Lestrade. I doubt he’ll remember much, the level of blow in his system, but you’ll still be lucky if he doesn’t bring a charge of assault against you.”

“I did not use excessive force on him, he was threatening a guest, and I intervened. I tackled him and I tried to subdue him. He was reaching for the man’s throat, sir.”

“But this man has gone, and so has the man you talked to at the riverside. Two people who have magically vanished, Lestrade.” 

“Do you blame them, sir? One guessed I was police, although I didn’t confirm or deny it. They’re not under arrest, are they?”

“This is serious, Lestrade.”

“So much for our _informal_ attendance, sir. We are not following police protocol here.”

“Don’t presume to tell me what is and is not protocol, lad. I wrote the bloody book on it.”

“Yes, sir,” Greg said, resigned and unhappy. 

Bracewell sighed. “Be thankful we caught the rest of them in the boathouse, as per the suggestion from your nonexistent guest, and that one’s blood test will confirm the level of cocaine in his system.”

“Sir, I…”

“Shut it, Lestrade. All's well as ends well, and his Lordship is quite happy we rooted them out. Now the evening isn’t ended, so all of you, get back out there. We’ve still got work to do…”

Mycroft found Greg sitting by the river, looking a little despondent. “My apologies, Constable Lestrade,” he said formally. Greg turned so quickly he nearly fell off the rock he had been sitting on.

“Mycroft, where did you get to?”

“I thought it best to make myself scarce. I had no wish for the police to find out my name. It would not reflect well on my career…”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t tell them. I was about to tell you to piss off for that very reason. You shouldn’t be here…”

“I hid in the trees while the ambulance left. I...I wanted to apologise. You didn’t get into trouble, did you?”

“No more than usual,” Greg replied quickly. “Lucky this is an informal event and we’re not here in any official capacity, otherwise it might have gone a bit pear-shaped. After all, no witnesses to say I didn’t lam into him deliberately…”

“Oh, God, I didn’t mean for you to take any blame…”

“Don’t worry. As I said, informal event. Steven is out of the picture. That might make things difficult for you though. A taxi from here will cost an arm and a leg…”

“As it happens, I am not far from where Mummy and Father live. A taxi will not be that onerous. Although I fear they may be rather surprised at my appearance. I am not usually so... _casual._ ”

Greg smiled. “Used to seeing their little boy properly suited and booted, hm?” 

“I’ll tell them I was invited to a fancy dress ball. With luck they’ll be out when I get home anyway. I keep spare clothes there for emergencies such as this.”

“Well, good luck with that. I would go sooner rather than later though. Bracewell is a bit of a tenacious bugger when he gets going. If he catches us talking...”

“Well, since my date abandoned me, I suppose I should find my way home soon anyway.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t suppose...you can’t get away…?” Mycroft looked hopeful. 

“Er...not really. At least, not until this thing finishes. Why?”

“I...um...I would have loved to invite you home. Your care of me tonight has been...something of a revelation. There was no need to protect me at the expense of your own reputation.”

“Of course there was. Besides, this was informal. No arrests, that’s what we were told. Haven’t broken any rules. There are no rules to break. You weren’t the cause of the problems, in fact your information helped us not to fuck up in front of his lordship. He’s happy and so are we. If your name had been mentioned though, things might have gone badly for you, so I’m happy I could help.” 

“Thank you...I...thank you,” Mycroft said, sincerely. “Nobody has ever done anything like that for me before.”

“Then, forgive my French, but the people you know are shite.”

Mycroft smiled, rueful and a little sad. “Maybe I am overdue to meet some nicer people, such as yourself, perhaps.” It was Greg’s turn to smile. 

“I’m not that good, Mycroft.”

“Au contraire, I disagree. You will make a fine policeman, Gregory. You care about people, I suspect you are quite compassionate at heart. There is a dedication in you that will take you a long way.” 

“Thanks. Kind of you to say. So…you want to get going yet?”

“I suppose I had better...although I have no idea where to find a phone. I can hardly turn up at the house and ask to borrow theirs.”

“Look,” Greg said, a little awkward, “if you want to stick around...if you don’t mind waiting, I came here on my bike, the others arrived in a minibus and a car. I don’t have to go back with them. Could give you a lift home, if you don’t mind riding pillion?” 

“I’ve never…” Mycroft paused. “I am not familiar with motorbikes, Greg.”

“How far away do your parents live, Mycroft?”

“Ashbolton, about a dozen miles away.” 

“That’s not far. We can ride slow, if you like? You’d have to go to ground though, just...stay out of trouble, til this thing ends.”

“I think I could manage that...but…I’ve never ridden a bike. I might be a liability…”

“Promise I’ll look after you. It’s not hard. Go on, Myc, first time for everything.”

“I...oh, very well. Do you possess a spare helmet?”

“Safety conscious, I like that. In the back pannier, I’ve got a spare.” 

“Very well then. However, I will elect to stay here, under cover of the trees, until you return.” 

“You had anything to eat yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

“I’ll go find us something. I’m a bit peckish myself. Just wait here and keep your head down.” Greg winked. 

“It was...really good to meet you, Greg,” Mycroft confessed. “The highlight of my evening. I wonder...when we get back to London...Would you be interested in dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, just an informal affair, nothing we couldn’t relax at. What do you say?”

“Well, I...okay then. I’d best give you my phone number. Just my home number, I’m not important enough to have my own work number yet.”

“Maybe one day,” Mycroft said, carefully not mentioning that he actually did have his own work number. Greg nodded and sauntered off at a jaunty pace, ducking under the willow and loping toward the buffet tent, eyes everywhere as he walked. Mycroft parted the willow fronds, observing Gregory Lestrade as he walked away. Suddenly, things seemed a little brighter in his future. 


	2. The Lift Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg offers to give Mycroft a lift home. A little angst ensues. 
> 
> You might note this is another story that has take flight and I'll be adding another chapter. Also, I've changed the rating. You'll see why. Smut ensues...
> 
> Mentions of childhood bullying too.

Mycroft waited so long he was convinced Greg wasn’t coming back, but just as he was about to leave the shelter of the willow, the branches shook and parted, and Greg was there, apologising profusely for being waylaid, holding a heaped plate of food. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I am so sorry,” Greg apologised, hurriedly. “Got fucking delayed by the lads.”

“What on earth happened?”

**00000000**

Getting to the catering tent had been fine. Greg had made it without being accosted on the way and had grabbed a plate to fill when Jim, Knighton, Morris and Alan turned up, all of them soaking wet. Usually Alan Brown was a genial, laid-back guy, but he was bristling with annoyance. The others headed to the bar but Alan came over to the buffet table to meet up with Greg.

“Bloody little Oiks!” he burst out, careful to keep his voice down despite the vehemence with which he spat the words. He speared a vol-au-vent* with unnecessary force and sent two more spinning off the plate across the table top. “Bugger!”

“Calm down, Alan. What’s up?” Greg asked. “And why are you lot wet through?” 

“We’ve just had to chase some little plonkers into the bloody river to retrieve the van hubcaps. It’s not fucking funny!” he snapped as Greg burst out laughing.

“It is, Alan. Really, really is…How come you all went? Did they pinch all four of ‘em?”

“Try nineteen.”

“Hate to tell you this, Alan, but the bus doesn’t have nineteen hubcaps.”

You could just about hear Alan’s eye roll. “Two Bimmers, a Rolls, our bus and a bubble car do.”

“A bubble car?”

“The gardener’s apparently. He’s none too pleased. We disturbed a gang of lads systematically nicking the hubcaps off everyone’s cars. If we hadn’t disturbed them they’d probably have nicked the lot.”

“So did you get them all back?”

“Rachel’s still looking for the last one. We caught some of the little bastards playing frisbee with them _in_ the fucking river.”

**00000000**

“A good job they didn’t throw them into the deepest part of the river,” Mycroft said with a smile when Greg finished the tale, delicately lifting a vol au vent from Greg’s plate and stuffing it in his mouth. The gesture was so unlike this prim man—a man that Greg realised with a shock he had only known for a few hours—that he couldn’t help but stare. “What?” Mycroft mumbled around the pastry. 

“You...You’re really letting your hair down, aren’t you?”

“What there is of it, which isn’t much, given that I am barely twenty six.” He sighed, dramatically. “You only live once, Greg, so congratulate me, pease. You seem to be teaching me how to have fun.”

The party died down around eleven, quite a conservative time but Sir Gordon put in an appearance on stage and brought things to an end. The caterers had long since cleared off and the bands had packed up and gone home. A few scattered revellers were herded away to cars and taxis, and Greg met up with the rest of the group in the carpark. 

“Right-o, lads and lasses,” Bracewell said, handing Greg his leathers back. “We had no _major_ incidents, despite a few minor ones, and we cleared out a potential problem, so I think we can say it was a successful mission. Well done, the lot of you. Strickland senior is suitably pleased with us so we can give ourselves a pat on the back. Nobody say anything but he’s bunged us a few quid for a night out as a thank you. So, off home with you, and drive safe. I don’t want to hear the local lads have nicked you for being over the limit. Anyone in tomorrow, don’t be late on shift.” With that, he climbed into the driver’s seat of the minibus and everyone departed. Greg let them go, using the time to get into his leathers, fiddling with the catches on his jacket until the last pair of brake lights bounced out the gate and disappeared. Finally, he was alone. 

“Greg,” Mycroft said from the darkness behind him.

“Jesus, Mycroft, don’t do that. You nearly gave me a cardiac arrest.”

“Sorry,” Mycroft said, uncontrite. “As a policeman I was under the impression that you would have nerves of steel.”

“Fuck you,” Greg muttered, grinning.

Mycroft was admiring him in his biking gear. He allowed his tongue to dart out, wetting those appealing lips of his. “I...rather hoped you might…” Mycroft murmured, boldly, and then blushed red to the roots of his hair, although in the darkness it made it difficult to see. Greg allowed a slow smile to blossom and fixed him with a look, one eyebrow raised. 

“Seriously?”

“I…” Mycroft wasn’t sure what to say. “I like you, Greg. However, I am...not experienced in such things. I’m...probably not what you are used to in a potential mate.”

“That doesn’t bother me. I like you too.”

“We seem somewhat compatible.”

“I’m attracted to you, if that’s what you mean.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am. What’s not to like? You’re just...you have a sense of humour, Mycroft, and it’s not like you’re not easy on the eyes, mate.”

“Oh. I...I just never think of myself like that.”

“I think I gathered that. Well, shall we make a move?”

“If we must.”

“Well, you did accept my offer of a lift.”

“I know. Should I be regretting that I accepted?”

“Hope not. Look, Myc. Something you should maybe be aware of. I’m not gay.”

“Well, the way you were admiring some of the female attendees, I should say not. You identify as bisexual then?”

“Yes, I do. Problem?”

“None. I _am_ gay. Problem?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Greg handed over the spare helmet. “These are connected with an intercom, so you can talk to me while we’re driving, okay?”

“Okay.” 

“Can you direct me to yours from here or do I need my roadmap?”

“Of course I can. I do drive, although I don’t currently possess a car, so I know the roads around here. Although if you see a phonebox on the way, would you stop? I would appreciate calling ahead. I think there’s one in the next village.”

“Won’t your folks be asleep?”

“Probably, if they are even there, but the butler won’t be asleep yet.” 

“Okay then.”

Greg helped Mycroft to adjust his helmet, then swung onto the seat and turned the key in the ignition. The bike roared to life. Mycroft swung his leg over and settled into Greg’s back. “Hold on to me firmly, okay?” Greg said. He turned the bike left out of the drive and headed south. “You know, I could drive us all the way back to London, if you wanted.”

“How long will it take?”

“An hour. Do you have work tomorrow?”

“No. It’s sunday. You?”

“Nope, actually.”

“Come to mine then. You can stay over. We can get a good night’s sleep and go home tomorrow. After lunch perhaps?”

“If you’re sure. I won’t be in the way?”

“Goodness, no. We have plenty of guest rooms.” 

“Okay then. Sounds like a plan.”

The drive through the summer night was nice, Mycroft clinging to his back, a full moon overhead giving them enough light to see by. The weather had been dry but the land was suffering a drought despite storms across the north of the country. It was fresher at night, and Greg in his biking leathers was already sweating. He saw a payphone as they motored through the small village of Mayburton, so he pulled over to allow Mycroft to go call his home. He lent on the bike and snuck a quick cigarette as Mycroft hunched in the kiosk, handset pressed under his chin as he rummaged through his pockets for change. Presently, Mycroft’s muffled voice reached his ears. The conversation was short, but when Mycroft returned, he was smiling.

“Wilkins will bring us drinks when we arrive,” he said. “He’s making up the guest room next to mine for you, but…” he paused for effect. “He just told me my parents are away for the weekend, not expected back until Monday earliest.” He rubbed his hands together. “So…we have the house to ourselves.”

“Are you okay with me staying?” Greg asked as Mycroft settled himself on the rear seat again. 

“Of course I am, why?” Mycroft slid his arms around Greg’s solid chest and leaned against his back.

“Just checking. We really only just met…”

“I know all I need to know about you, Greg. I may have been joking before, but...if you really want to...I would like us to...well...I would be agreeable.” 

The house Mycroft directed him to was not as large as the Strickland mansion but it was impressive nonetheless. It was built of stone and set in its own formal gardens.

“Wow,” he breathed as they drove down the long road up to the main house, flanked by poplars and green fields with the dim grey shapes of sheep dozing beneath strategically placed trees. They parked before the ivy-covered portico and Greg took off his helmet and breathed deep. “This is...amazing. Where should I leave the bike?”

“It will be fine here. Park it nearer the wall if you wish. Or you can take it around to the stable yard where we have the garages.”

“If it’s okay here, I’ll leave it here.” Greg stowed the spare helmet back in the rear pannier, made sure it was locked, then he unbuckled the saddlebags and hefted them over his shoulder. “Got my overnight stuff in, not leaving these out here,” he explained. “You know, toothbrush and stuff.”

“Come on inside then. We’ll have a nightcap and then to bed?”

“Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold! Enough!’.” Greg clapped Mycroft on the shoulder and gave him a gentle shove forward. 

“It is rare I meet anyone who does not misquote that.”

“So sue me, I love shakespeare.”

As promised, Wilkins the butler turned up on cue with ice tea for them both. They took it upstairs to the bedrooms, and Mycroft showed Greg the decadent room he would be staying in. It was huge. A vast king-sized bed dominated the high ceilinged room and heavy velvet drapes were drawn back, windows open, muslin curtains billowing in on the night breeze. Side lights were lit by the bed and the whole place was airy and cool. Greg loved it. Luxury.

“There’s an ensuite, with a shower, if you’d like to wash off the dust and sweat of the day,” Mycroft suggested, showing him the door to the bathroom. It was equally as large as his at home. 

“This is an ensuite? Looks like a proper bathroom.”

“Enjoy it at your leisure.” 

“Would you stay?” Greg asked, a slight challenge in his voice.

“After Wilkins has retired, then it will be safe.”

“He doesn’t look old enough...We could be waiting years…” For a moment, Mycroft frowned, then he rolled his eyes as Greg laughed. 

“You are impossible. I meant once he has gone to bed, idiot. To think we entrust the safety of our nation to your care…”

“Yeah, well, I’m not alone you know. No need to worry over much.”

Mycroft sighed, exasperated but fond. “Would you like anything else to drink? Something stronger perhaps?”

“Nope, s’okay. Want a clear head, Myc. Um...you mind me calling you Myc? If you’d prefer me to call you Mycroft….”

“Normally, I would prefer my entire name...however, I find myself curiously accepting of a shortened form when you say it.” 

Greg smiled. “Look...I know I keep saying this, but we only just met...if anything about this makes you uncomfortable, for God’s sake, say so, won’t you?” Greg stepped close, and laid a hand on Mycroft’s bicep. The fingers squeezed gently but firmly. “I don’t want to spook you or...anything. If you’d rather leave it like this, just...mates, yes? That’s fine. I just...hope you don’t. Don’t want to...just leave it there, Jesus! I am not making sense am I, and me a copper. I mean...” He took a breath and huffed it out. “I don’t want to stuff this up.” 

“That’s why I am fine with all of this, Greg,” Mycroft said gently. 

“Well, I want you to know, I’m aware of this AIDS thing too, and I’m happy to play safe. I’ve got condoms…”

“As I said, I know everything about you that I need to know.” 

“Yeah but what _do_ you know? Hardly anything…”

“I know you are a police constable with the London Met, soon to become a sergeant, and you ride a motorbike. I also know that you are a very caring person, your treatment of me lies testament to that. You are well informed, law abiding, and plain speaking, and with you, what one sees, one gets. I know where I stand with you. You love football, and the Clash, although perhaps your tastes do not lie with classical music,” Mycroft smiled. “I know you play guitar, and you are an elder brother, with mother and father still living…”

“Woah, how did you know that I love football and play guitar?”

“Simple, Gregory. The Gunners tattoo on your arm proves you love the game, and the callouses on the pads of your fingers tell me you play something stringed. For your age, status and budget, it was a bit of a leap, but probability leads me to think guitar, probably electric.”

“Oh, yeah...simple really. Now I feel stupid.”

“Don’t, please. You are far from stupid. I observe the tiniest details, and I do so very, very quickly. My brain is...it works differently to most others. I have an eidetic memory, I remember the small things, but I can also connect them. Sometimes it is...less than satisfactory.”

“How so?”

“My brain...I have had to train it, rigidly. If left without purpose, it would run on and on and on...tearing itself to shreds for lack of...focus. My younger brother suffers the same, and I have tried so hard to teach him how to cope, the way my mother taught me, but...I worry about him, constantly. I do fear he will turn to...recreational substances to try to deal with it.”

“That’s not good, Mycroft. The stress that must cause…”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite. Most people laugh when I tell them, but I have a...a mind palace…”

“A what?”

“A mind palace.” Mycroft sounded wary, almost scared, although his expression did not change. “It is a method of storage and recall of memory, nothing more. It places order onto chaos, makes it easier to deal with the sensory input.”

“Mycroft, are you...autistic? Sorry,” Greg screwed his expression up into contrite apology. “God, I am sorry, that was such a personal question…just ignore me.”

“No, no offense taken. It is an assumption many doctors have made concerning both myself and Sherlock, although it remains next to impossible to correctly diagnose. I am afraid I have a very high IQ, genius level.” Mycroft said the words dispassionately, completely without pride. “However, unlike my brother, I do not display any other markers for the autistic spectrum. I am comfortable in social situations, although inexperienced in...situations like this. I shall fully understand if you would prefer to...to back away…”

“Woah, stop. Mycroft...why would I ever want to do that?” Greg’s fingers tightened their hold. “Nothing about you would make me want to back off. You...you’re gorgeous, you know?” Greg poked a gentle finger into Mycroft’s chest. “You. Are. Gorgeous. Kind. Look at you, lean and tall, and your eyes...never had a blue-eyed lover before. What?” Because Mycroft had blushed red.

“You said... _lover._ ”

Greg stepped back and spread both hands wide. “Look, if you’ve had second thoughts….If this isn’t what you want, you only have to say.” Greg looked about him. “Jesus,” he said. “Look at this. Doesn’t matter what you want from me, Myc. I get to enjoy your company, and this, and...everything.” He scrubbed at his face with both hands and drew them down until only his mouth was hidden behind his fingers. Brown eyes stared at Mycroft in wonder. “I have died and gone to Heaven, mate. I am _not_ this lucky.” 

Mycroft could not hide his smile. “Enjoy your bath,” he said, “or shower, if you prefer. I will return when I know the staff have gone to bed.”

“I look forward to it, really, Myc. Mycroft. Just...do what you’re comfy with, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Greg.” 

**0000000000**

Unthinkingly, Mycroft opened the door to Greg’s bedroom without knocking and pushed it open with his hip, doing his best not to spill anything on the small tray he was carrying. The staff—Wilkins, and Mrs Perkin, their cook—had finally retired for the night and left the young master with two cups of cocoa and some fresh biscuits before being assured that he wouldn’t need them the following day until lunch. He had expressed his aim to lie in and did not wish to be disturbed. Neither, he assured them further, would his guest. Finally convinced, they went, although he missed Mrs Perkin’s fond look toward him and her subsequent glance at Wilkins, who had to cover his own knowing smile. Wilkins did his final rounds of the property, checking locks, as Mycroft made his way upstairs. 

The sight that arrested him— _no pun intended,_ he thought afterward—was that of Greg Lestrade, naked apart from a towel wrapped around his hips but riding rather low, revealing a trail of dark hair from chest to navel, disappearing enticingly below the towel. His hair was spikey from the shower. Mycroft’s mouth watered at the sight. 

“Oh…” he breathed, softly.

“Oh, Mycroft. You okay?” 

“I...I am s.s.so sorry, I...I should have knocked…”

“S’your house.” Greg said, coming over to take the tray from him. It was not lost on Mycroft that his towel looked somewhat precarious as Greg placed the tray on the top of a nearby chest of drawers.

“But it is your bedroom for the duration of your stay and it is most unconscionable of me that I ignored your privacy.”

Greg blinked. “Well, that’s okay. Thank you for thinking of my comfort, love, but I don’t mind.” He reached out a hand and petted Mycroft’s arm. “These are for us then?”

“Mrs Perkin sent them. Our cook,” he added at Greg’s quizzical glance. “She made the biscuits.”

“Talented lady then, your cook.”

“She is. She is also an incurable romantic and probably thinks we are having a torrid love affair as per the plotline of one of her many romance novels.”

Greg laughed. “Well, far be it from me to prove her wrong…” He caught Mycroft’s eye. “So, you wanna get down and dirty with me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft tried not to feel nervous, he really did, but he failed, in his opinion, miserably. “Yes, I do, but... honestly, I am waiting for you to find out that I am gauche and awkward and not worth your time… I am suffering from stress and anxiety and I am too aware that you and I are from different backgrounds and different social circles and…”

“And?”

“I fear that we will ultimately find that we are incompatible after all…”

“Stop, Mycroft. Just...stop a moment. Look, you and me, we clicked, didn’t we? That means there is something there between us, even if it’s only friendship. Something works, whatever it is. I...really like you, you know? I like how you look, I like your personality, I like _you_. And you seem to like me too. So...how about we give sex a try? Otherwise we’ll never know. It can be fun, you know? In fact it should be. Sex should be relaxed and fun and it should feel good.” He watched Mycroft mulling it over. He hadn’t given up stroking Mycroft’s arm. “Your choice though,” he said gently.

Mycroft looked down at the fingers caressing him and wondered. If he did not try, he would never know, he supposed. He reached out and twined his fingers with Greg’s. Stepping closer, he moved into Greg’s personal space and stared at the man. “I do not think I would like anything rough...nor would I care for pain...and I am not into humiliation or being ordered around. I am...not sure about any of the rest…”

“Look, Mycroft, we go slow. First times and all, you know you don’t need to go all the way.”

“All the way?”

“You know...actual penetration. You don’t need to do that to enjoy having sex. Some folks like oral, others don’t. Similarly some like anal, others don’t. Some people like to frot.”

“To what?”

“Frottage, Myc. Rubbing against each other.” Mycroft blushed. Greg smiled. “You are terribly cute when you do that.”

“Gregory, I am not cute,” Mycroft snapped testily.

“Yes, you are, you’re adorable.”

“I do not feel adorable.”

“No? Well, let me adore you, Mycroft…” Greg dropped to his knees before the man and grasped his hips. He nuzzled Mycroft through his jeans. Mycroft made a strangled noise and gripped Greg’s hair, fingers flexing in the short strands. 

“Ah,” Mycroft gasped as Greg touched him. 

“This okay?” Mycroft nodded, fervently. “Come on then. Bed?” Greg asked, clambering to his feet.

“We should drink our cocoa, otherwise Mrs Perkin will suspect…” 

Greg chuffed a laugh. “And we cannot add fuel to that fire, can we?” He took his mug and handed the other to Mycroft and they sat side by side on the bed, sipping their drinks and munching on the biscuits. “These,” Greg said, speaking around a mouthful of crumbs, “are very good.” 

“I agree. Mrs Perkin is a good cook, an excellent baker and a kind person. She does the laundry, she makes my parents’ meals, she helps my mother with her rose garden, and she walks their dogs. Wilkins answers the door, serves my parents’ meals, answers the telephone, and acts as their secretary. He arranges their travel, their hotels, their dry cleaning, he greets and looks after their guests. Both of them are very caring souls.”

“Sounds to me your parents are lucky to have them.” 

“Indeed,” Mycroft said.

Greg finished his cocoa and turned to Mycroft. “So...stay with me? Share my bed, Mycroft? Even if we don’t do much, I’d like you to stay, and please call me Greg. Only my mum calls me Gregory and that’s when I’ve done something wrong.”

Mycroft laughed. “But it suits you. You are a Gregory.”

“Sorry, Mycroft, but I wouldn’t have got far in secondary school being called Gregory.”

“You probably wouldn’t have got far in private school being called Greg.” The two men looked at each other. 

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t care how different we are, we have common ground.” Greg reached out, sliding a hand behind Mycroft’s head and drawing him close. Their lips met, an experimental gentle kiss, lips pressing, tongue exploring. Mycroft opened his mouth and let Greg in, tongue stroking tantalisingly. Greg slid his other hand down and squeezed, swallowing Mycroft’s gasp as he continued the gentle fondling. He took Mycroft’s hand and pressed it eagerly to the towel over his own crotch, Mycroft’s exploratory touch making him gasp in return. Mycroft drew back, wonder in his expression as he felt Greg get harder under his grasp. 

“You like that?”

“Course I do. You’re amazing.” Greg grasped his towel and tugged it off, dropping it to the floor and clambering unselfconsciously onto the bed. Mycroft just stared, captivated by the sight of a completely naked Gregory on his bed. “Come join me then?” Greg said, reaching out a hand. “You’re wearing too many clothes, love.”

Mycroft worried his bottom lip with his teeth, and reached for his shirt buttons. Greg just watched, seemingly transfixed. Mycroft tried to keep his fingers from trembling, finally shedding his shirt and dropping it on a chair. He reached for his jeans belt and undid it, taking his time. Greg licked his lips at the display, but Mycroft was not taking his time to entice but rather to give himself more time to prepare in his own mind for what was to come. Greg levered himself up and moved to help, skimming his hands under the waistband of Mycroft’s jeans and the boxers underneath, sliding both off at once, the stiff material bunching on Mycroft’s thighs. Mycroft struggled a little to kick them off, then blushed as Greg’s hands stroked his bare skin, worshipping him with his touch. The look in Greg’s eyes took Mycroft’s breath away. Nobody had ever looked on him like that. Greg pulled him close and kissed him again, almost dragging him onto the bed. 

They lay together, skin to skin, and Mycroft was hyper-aware of the warmth of Greg’s body. The man was smiling at him again, just stroking, touching carefully, teasing. 

“Would you...l.l.lead me, please,” Mycroft asked. “I’m...not…not really...”

“Not really what?”

“I don't really know what I want, or what you would like either.”

“Don’t worry. Touch me, if you want. Just...do what you want to, Mycroft.” Greg drew one of Mycroft’s hands to his crotch again only this time there was no cloth separating them. He curled his fingers around warm hard flesh, stroking, watching Greg’s face for his reaction. He was gratified to see a longing, a desire in the man’s dark eyes. Greg drew himself up and over Mycroft. He lowered himself between Mycroft’s thighs, milky skin cool against his own. He pressed close, aligning their cocks to rub together. Mycroft gasped, and bucked up a little, chasing the pressure. 

“This okay?”

“More than...okay...oooh...Gregory…”

Greg grinned. “Let’s keep doing this then?” 

It did not take long for Mycroft to feel the pressure build, pleasure coiling through him as Greg moved on top of him. His orgasm broke over him in a wave and he cried out Greg’s name, dimly aware of Greg reaching his own peak seconds later. Vision whited out for a moment, he came back to himself slowly, to find Greg wrapped around him, spooning. 

“I think...we should clean up.” Mycroft pushed Greg but the man was like a ton weight and didn’t move much. “Greg, please?”

“Clean freak, hm?” Greg murmured into Mycroft’s hair. 

“I am not a freak!”

Greg immediately stiffened and opened his eyes. “Mycroft…”

“Do not call me that again.” Mycroft was shaking, with anger or something else, Greg wasn’t certain.

“Myc...Mycroft? Shit. Sorry...look, it was a figure of speech, nothing more. I promise.” Greg reached for him. “I am so sorry. I just meant...you like to clean up after sex...That’s all I meant.” Mycroft was still rigid in his arms. “Mycroft, is that something you’ve been called before?”

“What? Freak? Yes, too many times.” Mycroft sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. He sighed, and dragged himself out of bed. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I’ll just…” He walked to the bathroom. 

“Bugger,” Greg cursed and followed him. “Myc, don’t. Look, I really am sorry. You are not a freak, okay?” He stopped in the bathroom door. Mycroft had his back to him, staring into the mirror. “Seriously, I did not mean you were a freak, honestly. Don’t do this, love.”

“I used to be fat,” Mycroft said suddenly. “I was plump and bookish, and not physically fit. I hated sports at school but we were forced into it. I hated the PE teacher.” He chuckled but it sounded hollow. “Other boys called me a freak because I was able to deduce everything about them. Did it as a defence mechanism, I suppose. Sherlock does it too. They left me alone after a while but...I was lonely, and they didn’t stop calling me names. Freak was just one of them.”

“Kids are cruel.” 

“Yes, well…” 

“No, they are. I know I wasn’t a saint at school. I was a bit of a bully, really. I regret it, honestly. I’ve tried to make up for it. I feel guilty about it, really. I was a shit to some people. Although in my defence, I never beat up anybody. I was just...mean, I guess.” 

Mycroft stared at him in the mirror. “You certainly seem to care now.”

“And I also open my mouth and put my big size elevens right in it. I’m neither perfect nor am I without my own flaws. I am sorry, love. That was amazing, just now, and I ruined it.”

“Just a slip of the tongue, Greg. I understand. I am just...sensitive to certain words. However, I confess to being a ‘clean freak’, as you put it. I don’t like mess, and I do not want to stay sticky.”

“Shower, then?” Greg suggested. “May I join you?”

“You may.”

“I really am sorry, Mycroft.”

“Apology accepted, Gregory.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *vol au vent, a small fluffy pastry filled with savory or sweet filling, very fashionable on buffet tables in the 70s and 80s but not seen much now. Dunno why, I always liked them. 
> 
> And in case anybody is not aware, a Bimmer is a BMW car. Apparently a Beemer/Beamer is a BMW motorbike. Both terms have been around since the 40s/50s. Nobody seems to know why they don't just call any BMW a Beemer. I've heard it used to refer to a car before but then, this is the 80s, so not sure what they were calling them then. 
> 
> The AIDS scare is mentioned, because it was all kicking off back then. Safe sex is mentioned, and if they get that far, the boys will be playing safe, however unsexy that might be considered.


	3. Back to Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg return home.

Greg woke the following morning, stretched luxuriously and realised he was not alone in the bed. Mycroft lay sprawled on the other side, snoring slightly, eyes closed, looking even younger in sleep. The sheet they were covered in had fallen slightly, showing Mycroft’s bare back, peppered with freckles across his pale skin. Greg laid his head back down and sighed in contentment. Lunch, and a leisurely drive back home. He was on shift early tomorrow, and Gods knew when they would see each other again, but Greg knew he wanted to. They were both starting out in their respective careers, and it might prove impossible, _but._..Greg knew he wanted to try. 

His bladder twinged, letting him know it was time to properly wake up, but he moved as carefully as he could so as not to wake his bedmate. He wondered if there would be the possibility of moving in together. _You’ve only just met the man, mate,_ he heard the voice in his head say, _and now you’re moving in together?_ He smiled at himself. _No, maybe not. Not yet at any rate_. Greg used the loo, washed his hands, then found his toothbrush and brushed his teeth. He was so not going to be guilty of morning breath. He wandered to the bay window and peered out through the muslin curtains. It was like something out of a dream, or a Merchant Ivory film. The summer sun was up, despite it being still quite early. The breeze was billowing the curtains into the room, the light diffuse and warm. The view outside was of a leafy garden, with bright green fields and rolling hills beyond, bordered by the many shades of green of an English woodland. He breathed deep, feeling the tension dissipate from his shoulders. He looked back at the bed. Looking like that, Mycroft should be his _Maurice_ , his lord of the manor. 

“Good morning,” came the sleepy voice from the bed. “Stop thinking and come back to bed.” 

Greg grinned. “Morning, sleepy. How are you?”

“In bliss,” Mycroft murmured. “Yourself?”

“Bright eyed and bushy tailed. It’s a glorious morning, Myc. Fancy a walk?”

“What, now? What time is it?”

Greg crossed the room and sat on the bed, peering at his watch on the bedside table. “Eight thirty…”

“Ohhhh,” Mycroft groaned and stretched, the sheet falling away to reveal his pale torso. “Far too early,” he complained, rolling over. “I had envisioned a lie-in this morning. It’s Sunday, and there is no reason short of world war three that could rouse me. Please do not tell me I have bagged myself an early riser…”

“Okay, I won’t.” Greg chuckled and sat down on the bed beside him, petting him gently, stroking the bare shoulders. Mycroft squirmed in pleasure. 

“That’s nice,” he murmured, happily, shifting closer to better facilitate the stroking.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Greg asked him, letting his fingers trace invisible lines to join the freckle dots.

“I thought we might...stay in bed a while. Then have a leisurely lunch. Head back to London this afternoon?”

“Sounds like a plan. So...what we doing for breakfast then?”

“I did tell the staff not to disturb us until lunchtime…”

“Aww, I was hoping for room service…”

“You are incorrigible, Gregory.” 

“I aim to please.”

Mycroft sat up and regarded Greg with soft eyes. “You could always have me for breakfast…” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. 

Greg licked his lips. “I could, could I?” Mycroft nodded and batted his eyelashes. 

“Such a tease,” Greg said, bending to kiss him. “So, what does sir fancy for breakfast then?” He leaned down and planted a kiss on one bare arse cheek, then pressed his lips to the other side as well. “Mind if I take the lead?”

“Should I?”

“Hope not.” Greg rolled him over, placed his hands on Mycroft’s hips and leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste his cock, which was already leaking. Mycroft moaned softly. 

“Gregory...I...do you...really…?”

“Really, I do.” Greg wrapped his lips around Mycroft’s cock and suckled. His lover bucked his hips up, or tried to, held in place as he was by Greg’s large, strong, but gentle hands. “No, you don’t,” Greg commanded, kissing the tip. He felt Mycroft’s shudder. “Just lie back and think of England.”

“I would rather think of you.”

“Okay then, that’ll do just as well.” 

Mycroft watched, in breathless anticipation, as Greg swallowed him down. “Oh, my God… do you...do this...often? You seem...very well...oohhhh....practiced…”

Greg let him go for a moment. “I’ve done this before, if that’s what you mean. Not often though. I’m not the police bicycle…”

“The what?”

“Bicycle, Mycroft. You call someone a bike, it means everybody’s ridden them?”

“Oh, I see.” Mycroft chuckled weakly. “How crude.”

“Yup, crude, that’s me. Not sophisticated like you.” 

“I am not sophisticated, Greg. Not really.”

“Liar,” Greg said, chuckling. “Look, Mycroft, I’ve not had many partners, but the ones I’ve had, they taught me well. You’ve never done this before?”

“Once, years ago, and it wasn’t very successful…”

“Well, shut up, and allow me to blow that Civil Service mind for you.” 

It wasn’t long before Greg’s ministrations had Mycroft gasping and arching, hands fisting in the sheets, toes curling. Greg’s fingers closed around his balls and tugged gently down, swallowing Mycroft’s prick to the hilt and sucking hard. Mycroft howled as he came, one hand on Greg’s head, fingers curled into his hair. Chest heaving as he struggled to bring air back into his lungs, Greg watched him, licking his lips like a satisfied cat. “That,” he said, “was amazing, Mycroft. You are incredible.”

“I think you’ll find that it is you who are the incredible one, Greg.” 

They lay together, Greg cuddling Mycroft close. “That okay?”

“ _Okay?_ Gregory, that is an altogether inadequate word to describe what you just did to me. _Okay?_ Call it breathtaking, astounding, amazing, or incredible, thrilling, even wondrous...but not _okay_.” Greg laughed at him. “Did you not want to...well, come?”

“Would be nice, but it’s not essential.”

“Could I…?”

“If you want to. Be my guest.” Mycroft reached to take him in hand, realising Greg was a bit thicker than he was himself, and perhaps a little longer too. “Only if you really want to though, Myc. Okay?”

“Oh, I want to. I really, really do.” Mycroft took him in hand, and it was Greg’s turn to see stars. What Mycroft lacked in knowledge he made up for with enthusiasm, and if he was uncertain, he asked advice. Greg was happy to give it to him. A change in pressure here, a slight adjustment to move his grip a little higher, a change in rhythm there, a twist on the downstroke, and Greg was arching and coming in very little time at all. He lay there, flushed and sweaty and supremely happy.

“Please tell me we’ll have this when we get home?” he said, hugging Mycroft close.

“I sincerely hope so,” Mycroft reassured him, head resting on Greg’s chest, listening contentedly to his heartbeat. “You will also be a sergeant soon, hm?”

“Hope to be.”

“What else do you hope to do with your life?”

“Travel. If I can ever afford it. Oh, I don’t mean Ibiza or Malaga for the holidays. I don’t mind a bit of sun but...hate lying idle by a pool. I always want to go see museums and art galleries, I want to go to the theatre, I wanna see castles. My cousins used to think I was mental. I like seeing the history of a place, as well as the food. They just wanted to get a tan.”

“You like culture?”

“If that’s what you call it, then yeah.”

“I admit I burn rather too easily to enjoy lying by a pool, but I enjoy swimming. However, I too enjoy the cool interior of a museum, or going to the opera. Do you speak any foreign languages?”

“French, passably, that’s all. Dad was half French, and I have French cousins. Well, I say cousins… It’s whatever I am to the kids of my Dad’s uncle.”

“First cousins,” Mycroft supplied easily.

Greg chuckled again. “I knew you’d know.”

“I know everything,” Mycroft murmured, smiling.

“So do you?”

“Do I what? Know everything?”

“Speak any foreign languages?”

“Oh. Five.”

“Five?”

“French, German, Italian, Norwegian and Japanese. I can write and speak fluently in French, German and Italian, and I can carry on a passable conversation in the others. I am also learning Mandarin and Dutch.”

“Wow. Je suis impressionné.” 

Mycroft smiled and cuddled into his lover. “Please stay in bed a while, Gregory. I want to be close.”

“Mycroft, have I got myself a cuddler?”

“I believe so.” 

“Then prepare to be properly cuddled.” Greg tightened his grip around the man, drawing him close and nuzzling into his neck. Mycroft fitted himself into a comfortable position against Greg’s chest, sighed like a contented cat, and relaxed. Greg kissed the top of his head, and settled against him. He drifted, dozing, cradling the slim man against his body. Pretty soon he also lapsed into sleep. 

A knocking on his bedroom door roused Mycroft barely an hour later. “Hmfff…” he mumbled, rolling over. He peered blearily at the door. 

“Mr Mycroft, sir?” The voice was muffled but it was definitely Watkins. “Are you awake?”

Greg had woken up too. “Bloody Hell, is that your butler? Thought you’d told him not to disturb us?”

“I did...He’s knocking on my door, not yours.”

“Busted,” Greg said, grinning. Mycroft rolled off the bed and dragged his robe on, padding to the door. He peered out.

“What is it, Watkins?”

Watkins whirled at the sound of the voice coming from behind him. He did not, however, seem unduly surprised that Mycroft was not in his own room. “Oh, sir. I _am_ dreadfully sorry, sir. I know you did not wish to be disturbed, but I have had a call, from your dear mother…” 

“Mummy?” Mycroft was alarmed. “What did she say?”

“Forgive me, sir, I am sorry to be the harbinger of bad news, but your parents are not waiting until tomorrow to return home. Their intent is to come back today, sir.”

“Today?” Mycroft squeaked. “Oh, Damnation! How long have we got? 

“They do not think they will be here before 2pm, but one never knows. I did not inform them of your presence, sir. I have a suggestion, if you will indulge me?”

“Yes, Watkins?”

“I wonder, would you and Mr Lestrade care for a picnic lunch? Mrs Perkin will be more than happy to prepare one for you both, and then you could leave earlier, should you so wish.”

“Not a bad idea, Myc,” Greg said from the bed. “Then you won’t have any awkward introductions.”

“Very well, Watkins. Please tell Mrs Perkin she is a Godsend and we would love a picnic.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And thank you, Watkins.”

“Not a problem, sir. I am only sorry I had to interrupt you.” 

“Oh...Watkins?” Mycroft said awkwardly. 

“Sir?”

“If this room could be...set to rights…?”

The man smiled. “Worry not, sir. We shall take care of things here. Your parents will never know.” The man withdrew and Mycroft looked at Greg, stricken.

“Hey, don’t fret. We’ll get gone before they arrive,” Greg reassured.

“I am not ashamed of you, please do not think that, Greg. It’s just...they can be somewhat overbearing...”

“Mycroft, it’s okay. I know how awkward meeting parents can be, and we’re not even an item yet. Hi, mum, dad, I just shagged a handsome stranger in your guest room. Not the kind of thing for polite conversation, hm?”

“I don’t think of you as a stranger, Gregory. I would like us to be _an item_...but only if you feel the same.”

“I would like that too, love, but don’t worry about your parents. Are you... _out_ to them?”

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

“My Father has known for a long time, but...Mother fails to acknowledge it. She just refuses to talk about it. As if it doesn’t exist, or if she ignores it, I will magically become straight, marry a girl, and have lots of grandchildren. If she knew about us...I hate to think what she would say.”

“I might be a bit of a shock to her?”

“Well, when she thinks of the London Met, she’s not thinking of the police, more the orchestra.” Greg laughed. 

“She would think it terrible that her little boy has taken up with a lowly sergeant, as well.”

“I am not ashamed of my heritage, Gregory. Not so many generations ago we were poor farm labourers. Our money is from Victorian industrialist great grandparents. Despite being over a hundred and fifty years ago, it is still classed as new money in some circles.”

“Aye, well, I’m working class boy myself. Salt of the earth, me. Come on, Myc. I don’t care that you’ve got money, or that you’re posh. You’re you, and I like you. You like me too, so let’s see what the future brings, eh?” While he spoke, his hands were roaming, and very soon, there was no more talking between them. Soft gasps and groans filled the room as Greg let his mouth explore again, drawing sounds from his lover that were music to his ears. 

They rose and showered together, Mycroft chivvying Greg into the bathroom not long after their morning liaison. He was nervous, knowing his parents were possibly on their way. Once dry, he donned a blue polo shirt and cream linen trousers, slipping his feet into a pair of soft leather loafers. Despite the casual look, he was still more formal than he had been the day before. Greg had to pull on the same clothes as the previous day but he had clean boxers and socks in his bike panniers, as well as his washbag. He traveled light but was usually ready to stop over at a moments notice. Mrs Perkin saw them off, having packed up sandwiches, a thermos of tea, and some more home made biscuits. Greg stowed it all in the panniers’ remaining space and removed his spare helmet to give to Mycroft again. 

As they mounted Greg’s bike, Mycroft gripped his shoulder hard. “What?” Greg asked, alarmed. 

“Oh God, they’re early. Oh, Heavens. What do we do?”

“Where are they?” Greg could hear a car engine coming but couldn’t see the car.

“I saw their car, a flash of silver through the trees on the drive. We can’t leave that way. We’d have to pass them...”

“So we leave another way. This is an estate, Mycroft. Don’t you have a back way?” He turned the key and the bike roared into life. “Hope on, quickly.” Mycroft scrambled on and Greg drove the bike around the corner of the house, out of sight of the drive. A quick look back made sure the car had not yet appeared around the bend. “Now where?” he asked.

“Go through the archway at the end of the stable yard. It leads onto the farm track that runs around the back of the estate. It’s rough though. We never use it…”

“We’re riding a bike, Myc. We’ll be fine. Hold on.”

Greg gunned the engine and drove through the archway, obeying Mycroft’s instructions to turn right. The track meandered through the fields and passed by what looked like the ruins of some farm buildings, eventually leading to a gateway in the wall. The gate was old and rusted shut. 

“Damn it, now what?” Greg said. The gate refused to budge and there was no way he could lift the bike over it. 

“Can we drive across the field?” There was a rutted track along the hedgerow into the farmer’s field beside the gateway. 

“The ground is dry, so yes. Might not be very comfortable but we can manage it. Why?”

“If memory serves, there’s a drive up to the neighbour’s farm on the other side of this field…”

Sure enough, Mycroft was right, and they emerged onto the metalled road that lead back the way they had come the previous night. 

As they motored slowly down the country lanes, Greg felt Mycroft relax behind him. He detoured through a couple more villages, both of which looked as if they were competing for the Most Floral Village in England competition. Idyllic stone cottages, some thatched, with ivy and roses about their doors and hollyhocks in the gardens, vyed with smart black and white framed shops and quaint market crosses. 

“Jesus, we motored into a chocolate box cover,” Greg said, pulling over and tugging off his helmet. The village they had stopped in had a green, with a large oak tree in the center with one of those typical slatted seats that surrounded the entire tree. He dragged out the picnic and thermos and went to sit in the shade on the bench. Mycroft joined him, stretching his long legs out in front of him. They munched on Mrs Perkin’s sandwiches in silence, while beyond the tree, ducks muttered to each other on the village pond. Greg checked his watch. “Any minute now, I bet there’s chimes from the church clock.” As if on cue, the church clock struck the three quarter hour. 

“Some things never change,” Mycroft said with a smile. “I’ll bet it looked just like this in the 1930s.”

“I hope some things never change,” Greg said. “Look, if you want to keep us secret when we get back...I will understand.”

“Don’t you? It’s hardly common to be openly gay in the police force.”

“I’m not gay,” Greg protested.

“If you come out as having a boyfriend, people will assume you’re gay. Most folk don’t make distinctions, Gregory. Surely you know the majority even deny the existence of bisexuality.”

“It’s Greg, and I see what you’re saying. Christ sake, I’ve had my share of gay mates telling me I can’t make my mind up or I’m playing the field...Broke up with my last boyfriend because he accused me of refusing to come out as being gay because I was scared to be honest about my identity. Honest about my identity? Fuck me, I’ve dated women, I _like_ women… And unless I stick to my guns about being Bi, well...things will not change.”

“Bold words from a courageous man.”

“Yeah, well...don’t feel very courageous sometimes.”

“You fearlessly tackled a man who was threatening me with violence.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t very scary.”

“Even so, you acted with bravery. He might have been armed.”

“But he wasn’t, and I was reasonably sure he wasn’t.”

“Stop doing yourself down, Gregory,” Mycroft insisted, exasperated.

“Yeah, well...Just doing my job, Mycroft.”

They motored the rest of the way into London, arriving mid-afternoon. The streets were quieter on Sunday. The pubs and larger shops were shut, a few corner shops were open. They made good time, arriving earlier than Greg had expected, or wanted. 

“Where will I drop you?” Greg asked.

“You could drop me at my office, on Whitehall.”

“Whitehall, hm? Don’t want me to see your digs?” Greg smiled.

“On the contrary, Gregory. However, my digs are only around the corner, and I need to pop into the office for something first. Besides, I have taken up so much of your time already. I should let you get on with your day…”

“I’m fine, Myc. Enjoying my day, actually…”

Greg eventually pulled over near to Whitehall, removed his helmet and gazed at Mycroft as he dismounted and unfastened his own helmet, handing it reluctantly back. 

“So...you want to meet up again?” Greg asked. There was a pause before Mycroft answered, and when he did it was subdued.

“I fear I am going to miss you, Gregory. This weekend has been...wonderful. Thank you, for everything…”

“That sounds suspiciously like a brush off, Mycroft.”

“It wasn’t meant to be, I can assure you.”

“Sure about that?”

“Look...we are both men of the world, we are career-minded, and as such we both lead very busy lives. There may not be much opportunity for us to meet...to _hook up_ , as it were. So, should you find anybody else...I shall understand…”

“I don’t want to _hook up_ , Myc. I want you. So, regardless of how busy we prove to be, wouldn’t it be nice to know there’s someone there in the background?” 

“I admit, yes, it would.”

“Look, Mycroft, no strings, but...let’s just give us time, hm? I like you. Can we at least call ourselves friends?”

“Of course, Gregory. I know we haven’t known each other a long time, but...Friends, definitely.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “I...am sorry, but...we are in public, and...I might be seen…” He flicked his eyes worriedly left and right without seemingly to move his head. 

“Mycroft, it’s fine.” Greg shook his hand. “Look, what about dinner, friday night, my place. I’ll cook. What do you say?”

Mycroft blinked, surprised. “I can’t, I’m afraid. I have a prior engagement, official duties. A trade delegation is arriving, and I have to attend the official dinner.”

“Ah, right. Okay then. Just a suggestion.” Mycroft did not care for the way Greg’s face fell on hearing his rejection. 

“Thursday night, however,” Mycroft said softly, “would suit just as well...if you are free that evening instead?” Mycroft smiled and found himself subject to a blinding smile in return. “I take it that is acceptable?”

“Of course it is, Mycroft. I’ll see you Thursday, then. Seven?”

“Seven it is. Goodbye, Greg, and thank you. I have had such a good time with you. I...thank you.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. See you Thursday. Oh, you need my address…” Hastily, Greg dragged a pen from his pocket and the battered remains of a reporter’s notebook, and scribbled his address down quickly. He ripped out the page and handed it over. 

“There you go. Don’t lose it.” 

“I shan’t. Take great care, Gregory. I look forward to Thursday.”

Greg watched the man go, quick stride taking him across the road and away down a side street. He sighed, and gunned the engine, turning the bike for home. 


	4. Final Furlong and Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter folks and another WIP is done... Yay!!!!
> 
> This has actually become a bit of a cross-over with an old UK comedy, "Yes, Minister", popular during the 80s and staring Paul Eddington as Jim Hacker, a rather hapless MP. His private secretary, Sir Humphrey Appleby, played by Sir Nigel Hawthorne. It seemed to fit Mycroft's early Civil Service employment situation... If you want an example of the humour, and I quote...  
> Jim Hacker, MP: I'd like a new chair. I hate swivel chairs.  
> Bernard Woolley (Principal Private Secretary - Mycroft's role in this story): It used to be said there were two kinds of chairs to go with two kinds of Minister: one sort folds up instantly; the other sort goes round and round in circles.

Monday morning arrived grey and overcast and after such a glorious weekend it put the glooms on everybody. Greg walked into the station and was met with a message to go see his commanding officer. He knocked on the door, straightened his uniform and went in on hearing the curt “Come!”

The office was glass-walled and almost painfully tidy, as though nothing would dare sit out of place for the man behind the desk. Superintendent Brentwood glanced up at Greg over the tops of his half-spectacles.

“Ah, Lestrade. Take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now then, a little bird told me you recently passed your sergeant’s exams, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Congratulations on that, lad. Well done. Now then, as it happens, there’s an opening, with Scotland Yard, Homicide and Serious Crimes, for a sergeant. You’ve made it clear you’d like to transfer to CID, yes? I would be happy to recommend you. What d’you say?” 

For a moment, Greg sat in stunned silence. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. This was what he’d been hoping for. It seemed too good to be true to come so soon.

“I...th.thank you, sir, but…” Greg blinked. “Do you think I’m ready?”

Brentwood fixed him with a look full of wry patience. “Look, Lestrade, you’re a good copper. Young, yes, but your record, if not exemplary, is still consistently good. You are known to be steady, reliable, good under pressure, and you can think for yourself. You can make on the spot decisions and run with them. You’re adaptable. While your career isn’t a bad one, it’s not a stella one yet. I think the move would be good for you. It would give you an opportunity to shine, but you have to want it, _really_ want it,” he emphasised. “So…?”

“I _do_ want it, sir. Honestly, it’s what I hoped for. I just...I just don’t want to balls it up. I’m sorry, sir. I know this isn’t showing me in a very good light but...” Greg shrugged, at a loss as to what else to offer. 

Brentwood smiled. “I think of all my current recruits, you are the least likely to balls it up, as you put it. I’ll see what they say about the position. If they’ve no problem with your transfer, neither have I, nor should you. I’ll be in touch, Lestrade.” And with that, the interview was ended and Greg got on with his day. He took the stairs with a definite spring in his step. _Serious Crimes?_ It was what he had hoped for. This was too good to be true… He was ready to spend the rest of the day on cloud nine. 

“Where the fuck have you been, Lestrade?” Sergeant Bracewell snapped at him as he walked in the conference room, bringing him back down to earth with a bump. “We’re waiting.”

“Sorry, Sarg. The Super wanted to speak to me. Were you not informed?”

“Obviously not,” Bracewell huffed. “Well, if you’re not too proud to join us, get your arse on a seat and pin back your ears. There’s a lot to catch up on after the weekend…” Bracewell proceeded to run through the day’s duties, assigning patrols, pointing out areas of concern, bringing up photos of faces they were to be on the lookout for. 

“Greg?” Hannah Trask leaned over and tapped his shoulder. He inclined his head back, listening without appearing to turn. “There’s a Buzzcocks gig on this weekend at The Marquee. A few of us are going. Wanna join us?” 

Greg thought about it. Maybe he should invite Mycroft. “Mind if I bring someone?”

Bracewell flicked an annoyed glance in their direction but had obviously missed who was talking and after a moment he carried on with his briefing.

“The more the merrier,” Hannah murmured in agreement. 

**0000000000000**

Mycroft went into his office in the Department of Administrative Affairs on Monday, sat down at his desk and went through the departmental mail, as always. It was his first job on a morning and he worked through until he took a break at eleven. On his return, he was met with the Permanent Secretary pacing the floor and trying not to look as if he was pacing the floor. The man was, to put it mildly, pedantic in just about everything he did. He dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, missing nothing. Neither did Mycroft. Thus far, Mycroft was his indispensable assistant who knew everything. His official title was Principal Private Secretary, but he was all things to all people, depending on what required to be done, when, and by whom. 

“Good morning, Sir Humphrey. May I be of assistance, sir?” Mycroft asked politely, as was his wont. Where Sir Humphrey was concerned, Mycroft never assumed anything. 

“Where the blue blazes is that file you compiled on the members of the trade delegation from Belarus?” The man said testily. Mycroft thought nothing of it. Irritable and condescending were Sir Humphrey’s default states. He treated his cabinet minister as though the man was a ten year old with learning difficulties. Mycroft tracked quietly to the filing cabinets in the corner of the office. He rifled through the second drawer down and came up with a manilla folder. 

“Here you are, sir.”

“What was it doing there?”

“Under B for Belarus,” Mycroft said impassively. The file was exactly where the file ought to be, and in fact it was where it always had been, but it was no use telling Sir Humphrey that, so he said instead, “I think the clerk has implemented a new filing system, Sir. Takes a bit of getting used to. Under B for Belarus, not T for Trade.”

Sir Humphrey frowned. “I suppose I should thank you, Holmes,” he said grudgingly.

Mycroft was tempted to say “Please don’t strain yourself on my account,” but of course he said nothing, and gave the man a tight smile. It was always ‘Holmes’. They were not on first name terms. 

“Yes, well...carry on. I’ll be in my office for the rest of this morning but I have to go to a meeting this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir. You have a 12.30 Lunch with the Education Secretary, according to your diary. The table is booked at your club, I believe. Then you are expected to attend the Permanent Secretaries Group meeting this afternoon at 3.30.”

“Yes, although I have no idea when I shall be back. If Hacker wants me, I’ll probably be available after five, although Sir James Farrah and I are having a drink afterwards. If it’s urgent, call my home. Leave a message with Lady Appleby.”

“Mr Hacker is at home today, sir. His wife’s birthday. I don’t envision that he will have need to speak to you before tomorrow. However, before you go, would you be able to go over a few pressing matters that have arisen this morning?” 

Sir Humphrey well knew that ‘pressing matters’ where Mycroft was concerned meant they were urgent. “Oh, very well. Give me an hour. Better not be anything too arduous.”

“I do not plan to take up more than a half hour of your time, sir. Nothing has arisen that would make me believe it cannot be dealt with quickly, but the matters in hand require a decision on your part.”

“Good. One thing I can rely on with you, Holmes. You’re efficient.”

“A pleasure as always, Sir Humphrey.” Mycroft managed to sound sincere. Sir Humphrey Appleby huffed and went into the inner office. There was a reason his nickname (behind his back) was Humph, and it had nothing to do with his name. 

Mycroft sat down at his desk a day later and proceeded to get on with his first task of the day, once again organising and prioritising everything that had arrived by both internal and external mail that morning. Once again, Sir Humphrey was nowhere to be seen so Mycroft could get on with his tasks unimpeded. He slit the envelopes open with his letter opener, scanned the contents, clipped anything together that needed it, and placed them in one of four in-boxes; A, B, C, or Nowt. A’s were urgent, requiring immediate action. B’s could wait, with a time scale of a few days to a week. Cs could loiter with intent for a month or more. If he got around to those, well and good, but if not, nobody would suffer. ‘Nowt’ was not the northern dialect word for nothing, as some folk surmised, but stood for ‘No One Wants This’, and required passing on to some other luckless drone. There were always a few ‘nowts’ in the box in the morning, always gone by the end of the day. Mycroft was also efficient at passing the buck in the internal mail system. 

He took out his diary and scanned it for any tasks that needed doing in the week ahead, adding those to his mental list, scooting them in between the tasks the post had delivered. If the phone rang he answered it first, noting the caller, the time, and any message, unless he could redirect the call to Hacker or Appleby first. Efficiency was Mycroft’s watchword, and procrastination simply wasn’t entertained. Mycroft was a simple person when at work. Do as one is told, do the job well, do not cut corners, do not shirk responsibility, take opportunities when they present themselves, and make one’s self indispensable. He was careful concerning being noticed. He placed himself in situations that he knew would be beneficial and shunned the ones that were not. He worked for people he knew would remember. He did favours for people whom he knew he would be able to call on later for payback. He worked for the good of the country. He cultivated connections when he could. The Prince, The Art of War and The Social Contract were his requisite recreational reading at University. He had strategies and a grand plan. In his mind, he had thought he knew where he wanted to be in ten years. He had reckoned without Greg Lestrade. 

Mycroft’s mind drifted, something it was not usually wont to do. He caught himself thinking about Greg, and how they might fit together; sharing a home, a bed, food, weekends...

“Holmes?”

“Sir?”

“A moment, if you please.” 

Mycroft got up, grabbing his notebook and pen and tugging his jacket straight, his daydream shattered. 

**0000000000**

“Gregory?”

“Mycroft, hi,” Greg said when he picked up his phone later that evening. 

“Ah, Gregory. Hello. How are you?”

“Fine, fine...what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I was just...wondering if you were alright. After the weekend, you understand. I was...hoping you got home safely, that’s all.”

“I’m good, yeah. Great actually.”

“Good. I’m glad.” There was a pause. 

“Listen, while you’re on the phone, I can ask you...would you like to come to a gig at the weekend?” Greg blurted out before he could change his mind. “The Buzzcocks are playing The Marquee, Covent Garden…”

“Who?”

“Seriously?” Greg couldn’t believe it. “You don’t know who I’m talking about?”

“I am afraid to say...no.”

“Seriously good punk band. Famous too, you sure you’ve not heard of them?” 

“Apologies. I am sure I would have remembered a name like that.”

“Yeah, well, a group of us are going. I just wondered if you’d fancy it.”

“Alas, I do not envision it as being something I would be interested in…”

“Okay then. I was just hoping to see you this weekend sometime. Still coming to dinner?”

“I would not miss it. Thursday, at seven. Correct?”

“Yeah. Look, forgot to ask you, is there anything you don’t eat? Anything you can’t eat?”

“I do not particularly care for peppery dishes, or overly hot ones.”

“I was thinking maybe Italian?”

“That sounds acceptable. If you would though, no peppers. They give me horrendous indigestion.”

“No peppers. Got it. So, I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Yes, and thank you for the invitation, Gregory. Even if it is not my thing, as it were.”

“S’okay. We’re all different. You are allowed to say no.” There was a smile in Greg’s voice.

“I am looking forward to Thursday, I admit.”

“Yeah? Great. Oh, and you’ll never guess. The Super...my Superintendent, he’s recommending me for a sergeant’s position in CID. There’s one come up in Serious Crimes at Scotland Yard.”

“Really? Well done, Greg. That’s great news.”

“Yeah, well, not actually got it yet. Passed my exams but they have to approve it, so I’ve got to wait, but it’s in the offing. A first step, as it were. So, wish me luck.”

“I am sure you have no need of luck, Gregory. You are the best man for the job.”

“Good that someone has confidence in me. So...I’ll see you thursday then.”

“You shall. Until then, Gregory. Have a good week.” 

“You too. Bye then.”

Greg put the phone down, wondering. At least he’d offered. Not a terrible surprise that Mycroft wasn’t interested. He checked his cupboards and realised he would have to go shopping before Thursday night.

Thursday rolled around. Mycroft arrived for work to find Sir Humphrey pacing the floor again, while trying not to appear as if he were pacing. He was turning it into an art form.

“Good morning, Sir Humphrey. How can I help you this morning, sir?”

“By going home, packing your bags, and returning here before 2pm sharp with your passport. You are to ready yourself to leave with the delegation Mr Hacker has just seen fit to inform me that he has been asked to accompany to Europe.” The Private Secretary was fuming. 

“Sir? 2pm? I…”

“What? Please don’t tell me you have appointments. Nothing is more important than this, Holmes. You have to keep Hacker out of trouble. Brief him, accompany him, do your best to stop him putting his foot in it. He’s hardly an idiot, the man had two degrees, for Gods’ sake. He’s overqualified for this job and yet he has to tact of a rhino. Please, I can’t go. Someone from this department has to be at the dinner on Friday…”

“I was scheduled to go to the dinner, sir.”

“Yes, well, you can take this trip instead. He needs a babysitter and you’re it.”

“Very well, sir,” Mycroft said stiffly. “However, I did have plans. There are people I need to contact to tell them not to expect me.”

“Look, this is...good of you, Holmes.” Mycroft recognised when Sir Humphrey was adopting his chummy approach. “Do this for me and I will move heaven and earth to get you a week off once Parliament is in summer recess.” 

“A whole week, sir? How thrilling.” Mycroft could not disguise his sarcasm. 

“Yes, well, careers have been made and broken on less than this little outing, Holmes.”

Greg’s phone was not equipped with an answerphone. Mycroft found he could not leave a message. _Damn it all_. He finished packing his suitcase and located his passport and travel documents, driver’s licence and government ID. When the promised holiday materialised, assuming it did, he would suggest that they both go on holiday somewhere together, somewhere warm. He would pay. He could afford to. The Med, somewhere. Monte Carlo perhaps. Lake Garda. Cyprus? He spent the rest of the time it took to pack and return to work thinking about where he and Greg could travel to with decent weather and good beds and culture. The office was empty when he arrived, and he grabbed the phone and tried Greg’s number again. Nothing. The man would not be home yet, it was barely just past one in the afternoon. Impulsively, he rang Scotland Yard and asked to be put through to Constable Lestrade. 

“Division?”

“I..I’m sorry, I’m not sure. Look, would it be possible to leave a message?”

“Do you know his number?”

“Number?”

“Shoulder number, epaulette number. Should be three digits.” Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to recall if he’d ever been told Greg’s badge number. 

“Alas I was never informed of his number. I know him socially, and this is not a professional call. I simply do not know how else to contact him. ”

“Might not be easy to trace. Mind you, not like he’s called Smith or Brown or anything. Lestrade doesn’t even sound English.”

“Oh, he is English, I can assure you of that.”

“I’ll have a look. What was your message?”

“Um...nothing urgent. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I had a meeting arranged with Constable Lestrade, but I am afraid I’ve been called away on urgent business. I am attached to the Foreign Office and it’s unavoidable. I wished to send my apologies and to let him know I would be in touch when I returned, as there is no time to talk to him before I leave.” 

After leaving his details, Mycroft was not hopeful of the message getting through, and it was with a heavy heart that he put the phone down. He had to pack. 

**00000000000**

Greg dashed home as soon as his shift finished, grabbing a four pack of beer from the corner shop on his way by. He opened his door to find the post on the floor, so he picked it up, ready to read when he had a moment. Flicking through the envelopes, he had a letter from his mother, a few bills, a couple of bits of junk mail, a flier for the local judo club, and a party political message from the Tories. He crumpled that and threw it at the bin. It missed. Chuckling, he picked it up, aware that he didn’t want Mycroft to think he was messy. 

Greg went through to the kitchenette and started putting stuff together for their meal, switching his radio on to keep him company. Singing along to Cindy Lauper’s Time After Time, he chopped onions and tipped them in the pan to sizzle, grabbing a spatula to stir them. Beef mince followed into another pan to brown. 

“If you're lost you can look and you will find me, time after time…” he sang, thinking of warm nights and Mycroft’s arms. “If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting…” Greg smiled as he thought back to the weekend, meeting the most interesting and gorgeous man he’d ever seen. “Time after time…” he finished. He chopped tomatoes, then shovelled them into the onions, giving them a stir. He dragged some healthy salad out of the fridge, and made up his grand-mère’s salad dressing. Honey and white wine vinegar and olive oil splashed into a jug, and Greg stirred happily, finally drizzling it onto the leaves. He set the salad aside, wiping the surface over. He put pasta on to boil, then mixed the mince into the tomatoes and onions, adding a bolognese mix from a packet. Mycroft did not need to know that one. 

Showered, changed and feeling a bit excited, Greg put the finishing touches to the meal and laid the table. Seven o’clock came and went. Knowing Mycroft might well have been held up at work he chose a tape of his favourite songs and slipped it into his music center, trying to fast forward to one of his favourites. When Seven Thirty went by, Greg flicked back the curtains to peer out onto the street below. He lived on a fairly quiet street, and nothing was moving. A quiet pang of worry flickered through his thoughts. 

Eight o’clock passed slowly and Greg wondered about calling Mycroft. He had the number but wasn’t sure what to do. Nine o’clock went by and Greg gave up. He pulled a plate toward himself and resigned himself to the fact that Mycroft wasn’t coming. Disappointment flooded him and he hardly tasted the food, pilling the washing up into the bowl and abandoning it to the following day, he went to bed, spending a useless hour staring at the darkened ceiling and wondering what went wrong.

**000000000000**

“You’re looking to contact Mr Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yes. This is the contact number he gave me.”

“And you are…?”

“Constable Lestrade, Greg Lestrade.”

“What was our query, Constable? If this is official business…”

“Nope, no, just...well, I had arranged to meet Mr Holmes yesterday and he never showed. I...it wasn’t official, but I’ve had no message. I wondered if you knew he was okay?” There was a pause, and then a new voice took over.

“I’m afraid Mr Holmes was called away. He won’t be back in work until next week.”

“Oh, okay. I’m sorry to bother you, but…as long as he’s alright.”

“In good health, when I saw him last. I am afraid it was rather last minute. I’ll tell him you called.”

“Thank you. Please do.” There was a click and the call ended. Greg put down the receiver and frowned. “Called away, hm?” He huffed, annoyed. At least Mycroft was alright. He finished getting ready for work, tugged on his leathers, and went out to his bike. It was a glorious morning, compared to the previous day, and he would be starting his new position soon. He knew his workmates had a leaving do planned, but he was not going to regret leaving most of them. Penny with her caustic attitude and Sergeant Bracewell… Well, Sergeant Lestrade would not be like him…

**0000000000**

Mycroft returned home after his weekend away in a black mood. He was frankly sick of Hacker. The man was intelligent but completely lacking in social graces. He had no idea how to deal with his foreign counterparts and Mycroft had been working damage control all weekend. He had also lost his weekend… and his evening with Greg, and the reception on Friday, which, while he usually disliked the necessity of formal dinners, he rather treated them as a challenge, with free food and wine, which were nothing if not excellent. The moment he had dumped his bags, he picked up his phone and called Greg. It was nearly seven, and he hoped Greg was home to get the call. There was no answer phone so he hoped the call would be picked up. 

**0000000000**

“Greg!” The call spun him round as he exited the lift into his department on Friday morning. 

“Josh? What’s up?”

“Switchboard called. Someone tried leaving a message for a Constable Lestrade? Took a while to find you, they didn’t have your collar number. Tracked you down here, cos God forbid there be two of you…”

“Fuck you, Josh. So what was the message?”

“Someone called Michael Holmes?” _Michael?_

“I know a Mycroft Holmes.”

“Whatever. Said something about being in the Foreign Office, and having to leave on urgent business. Be back in touch when he gets back.”

“Oh. Okay.” Greg wondered which bit of the Foreign Office Mycroft worked for. 

”Who the fuck do you know works in the Foreign Office?” Josh asked. 

”No idea, mate,” Greg shot back, deflecting.

The gig on Saturday night was a blast. The Buzzcocks were one of Greg’s favourite bands, and the little group he was with was like family. He was going to miss them, he thought, when he moved over to CID. His thoughts slid to Mycroft, wondering where he was, if he was enjoying himself, what he was doing. Oddly, he’d only known the guy for a short while and yet something about him had wormed its way under his skin, in a good way, but now he found himself thinking about Mycroft Holmes more often than he’d thought about anyone else. It was disconcerting, in a way. He wanted to see him again. 

He got home after a very busy Monday to his phone ringing. He flung himself on it before it stopped and almost yelled down the phone “Lestrade!”

“Oh, Gregory. I am sorry. Did I call at a bad time?”

“Mycroft? What the Fuck happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am fine. Did you get my message?”

“Not until the following day.”

“Oh, Drat. I had hoped…”

“Not to worry. You tried. So what happened?”

Mycroft proceeded to tell him a little of what had happened, but it sounded lame, even to his ears. 

“I am glad to be home and regretting missing your company. I have, however, been thinking. Would it be inappropriate to call on you tonight? I can get a cab…”

**000000000000**

Mycroft breezed in the door to Greg’s flat carrying a bag of take away under one arm and his umbrella on the other. Greg took the food from him and went to find plates and forks, while Mycroft surveyed the flat with interest. He couldn’t help noticing the little glances that Greg kept shooting his way.

“Do you see something that interests you?” Mycroft enquired, a smile playing on his lips.

“Um...I’ve never seen you...dressed like that? I saw you in casuals, if you recall.”

“I do. This is my armour, Greg. I wear this against the world. My camouflage. I wear it to fit in to my environment.”

“Which is…?”

“Government. Politics. I am a Civil Servant, Gregory.” 

“Not a politician?”

“Good God, no. I prefer the anonymity of working behind the scenes.”

“Ah, the power behind the throne, hm?”

Mycroft smiled. “Exactly. My brain lends itself well to the intricacies of the political dance that is government. I intend to be the indispensable omnipotence behind the throne, the clearing house, as it were. I am climbing, albeit slowly. However, the wheels of government never move quickly.”

“In it for the long haul then?”

“Of course.”

“Mycroft…”

“Yes, Greg?”

“I was wondering….”

“Yes, Greg?”

“About us…”

“Us? You want there to be an ‘us’? When I have to go travelling at a moment’s notice and miss dinner dates? When I fail utterly at letting you know in advance? Could you put up with me not being able to tell you everything about my work? I will have to keep secrets...”

“Yes, I can. I’m just not sure that...well, we’re both career men, Mike. We have ambitions. You reckon there’s a place for us in that?”

Mycroft took a moment before he spoke. When he did, it was with care in his choice of words. “I think,” he began, “that if there isn’t, then what on earth is all this for? All our ambition, our achievements?” Mycroft stared at the floor, not meeting Greg’s eyes. “What on earth is the point of it all? I mean…” he glanced up, almost afraid of what he would see in Greg’s expression. “I could stay single, shun the opportunity of a relationship, become some kind of cold hearted...iceman, I suppose, shut off, emotionally stunted and ultimately lonely, which frankly is terrifying… or I could take the bull by the horns, take a leap of faith, and jump in with both feet.”

“And you could stop mixing your metaphors,” Greg said with a grin, handing him a full plate. “Look, Myc, I am willing to see where this goes. I understand if you can’t tell me everything you do, and you know I won’t be able to tell you about my ongoing cases either. At least we will understand how the other’s job works. We’re going to miss dates, and rearrange lunches, and juggle our careers and our love life...but you know...I want to try it with you. Not to sound sappy or anything...but there’s something about you, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“I have to confess, I have been...distracted with thoughts of you. It made this weekend all the more difficult….”

“I don’t want to cause you a problem, Mycroft.” 

“You don’t, Gregory. Besides, thoughts of you filled an otherwise boring and ultimately unfulfilling weekend. I think I was more...distracted by worrying if I’d buggered it up with you.”

Greg laughed. “No, you haven’t.”

“Good. Then I can stop worrying,” he said, moving to sit on the sofa. “However, I wonder...would you consider moving in together?”

“Already?”

“That way we could afford a much better property close to the center of London than either of us could otherwise afford. Plus we would see each other every day, and enjoy our time off together. Ultimately I can see no downside. If we get a place with separate rooms, then we will not be in each other’s space, as it were.”

“Hang on, Mycroft...we’ve really only just met…”

“How do you feel about the piano?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the piano when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days...Would that bother you? I feel potential flatmates should know the worst about each other…”

Greg just stared at him, blindsided. “I have my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we should be able to afford it. Let’s meet tomorrow to look at it, shall we say seven o’clock?”

Greg sat there, staring at him. Then he burst out laughing. “God’s sake, you mad bastard.” Mycroft grinned back, a little wild. 

“I am taking control of my life, Gregory. I foresaw several futures for myself, before I met you. All of them bleak. All of them ultimately unfulfilling. Now...all the variables you provide. Life is suddenly much more interesting.” Mycroft put his 8ì888u aside, and reached out, cradling Greg’s face in his hands, eyes searching his. “I find I am loathe to let that precious opportunity go by.” His fingers were warm and gentle, and Greg felt...cherished, adored. Greg’s hands lifted almost of their own accord and came to rest on Mycroft’s waist, under his jacket. 

“Okay then,” he agreed, softly. “All I can say to that is… Lay on, McDuff, and damned be him who says ‘Hold! Enough!”

**Fin.**

Epilogue…

“Gregory, where are my cufflinks?”

“Which ones?” came the question from the confines of the ensuite.

“The Gold umbrellas?”

“In your bedside drawer…”

Mycroft rifled through the drawer’s contents and came up with the offending black case. “Thank you, my Love. How are you getting on?”

“Nearly ready. What’s the time?”

“Rolling on towards half past six.”

“Damn, the car will be here soon…” Greg dashed out the ensuite door, a towel wrapped precariously around his hips and Mycroft was put in mind of the first time he had ever seen him like that… That evening at home, the first day they met… “What you smiling about?” Greg prompted. 

“Just a memory. You remember the day we met? Must be...oh, thirty five years ago…”

Greg grinned at him, a blazing grin that had not dimmed with age. If anything, the man was more handsome, silvering hair and heavy frame giving him a distinguished air. He was still fit, despite being in his fifties. “Could hardly forget, could I?”

“I never wanted anyone else, Greg.”

“Me neither, Gorgeous.” 

“You have made me feel...wanted, loved, adored…”

“You’ve done the same for me. It was never going to be easy, love, but we made it. Now we get to retire together, early, and see out whatever we have left of our dotage together. We earned it, love.” 

“It has been made immeasurably easier by having you at my side, Gregory. I hope you understand that.”

“Likewise, love. More than the sum, eh?” It was an old reference between them. Together they were stronger, more than the sum of their parts. They were still together, older, wiser, but still in love, after so long. 

“To me, fair friend, you never can be old,” Mycroft quoted. “For as you were when first your eye I eyed, such seems your beauty still.”

Greg smiled and began to button the shirt he had just pulled on. “Wonder what it was that threw us together?” he said, contemplatively. “Twenty fifth anniversary, love. I’d never have bet on us reaching this. After all, there were a couple of times I wondered…”

Mycroft sighed. “Every relationship suffers uncertainty now and again,” he said. “Par for the course, after all. However, one thing we always knew how to do was talk.”

“Good job too. So...Mr Holmes-Lestrade, pick me a tie?”

“With pleasure, Detective Chief Inspector Holmes-Lestrade,” Mycroft said and disappeared into their walk-in wardrobe. “Thirty five years together, and you are still terrible at choosing the correct tie.”

Greg laughed. “Nonsense. I learned years ago, just never had the heart to take the job away from you.”

it

“You are incorrigible,” Mycroft said, emerging with a nice burgundy tie and matching pocket square. 

“Yeah, but I’m yours...”

“Likewise, Greg.” 

_And that,_ thought Greg, _is everything either of us will ever need._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. This is in honour of someone I knew for thirty five years, and loved with all my heart. Wish we'd been able to retire together too. The boys get to do it on our behalf. God bless you, darling.

**Author's Note:**

> *Common People by Pulp, doesn’t come out until 1995, so couldn’t use it here, even if some of the words are appropriate.


End file.
